The Forensics Of The Origami Murders
by N0rdic-Breeze
Summary: ARI is truly a marvel, but no substitute for a forensic team, especially when it comes to complex, biological substances like blood and pollen. And because Norman Jayden deserved better! Retelling of the Origami Killer case as seen through the eyes of an intern at the Philadelphia PD's forensic section. Told mostly from a first person perspective.
1. Chapter 1

"Shit!" I hissed under my breath as I accidentally stepped in a deeper-than-it-looked puddle taking up most of the sidewalk. Despite the downpour, I'd almost made it to the precinct dry under my raincoat and ankle boots. With only a few steps to go, I _had_ to screw up. Now both my leggings and brand-new sequin skirt were soaking wet.

Fifteen minutes later, after a warm cup of tea, a quick morning brief and a change from wine red raincoat to white lab coat I was ready to get to work. Not long ago, a notorious serial killer known as the Origami Killer had claimed their seventh victim, and multiple samples awaited analysis. I prepped the victim's blood and sat down in front of the microscope to perform a manual blood count, carefully noting down every observation I made.

"Got any plans for the weekend?"

I was so focused on the task at hand that Jane's voice visibly startled me.

"Except for studies, Netflix'n chill… nah." I replied, not taking my eyes away from the microscope's eyepiece.

Despite my short time as an intern at the Philadelphia Police 6th District's forensic section Jane had proven to be both a reliable colleague and a good friend. Knowing I was new in town she'd taken me under her wing, shown me around the lab and the precinct, pointed out the best dining and shopping areas nearby and taken me out for tea and drinks. Realizing I'd been glaring down the ocular longer than intended I stretched my back and rubbed my temples. Jane tilted her head and cooked a sympathetic smile.

"Been working three hours non-stop with no break again, eh?"

It wasn't far from the truth. I had a habit of getting absorbed by my work, losing track of time.

"A couple of drinks would be nice though," I admitted. "Tomorrow at 5?"

"I can't tomorrow sweetie. I have a date, remember?"

"Pfft, I can barely remember what a 'date' is."

Jane gave me this overbearing look as if pitying my lack of social life and I could tell she was trying to fit me into her weekend plans. I was about to assure her I'd be fine as I had some studying to catch up on and my apartment was in serious need of a good tidying.

"How about we go out for a Frappuccino and a hot chocolate after hours?"

"But didn't you plan on go shopping later?"

"Yeah… But as you may have noticed, raining season has just started and we need to stay warm." Jane shot a glance towards the nearest window. "Better get used to it. The rain's gonna last more or less till Christmas time when it'll start to snow instead."

My eyes shifted between the notes spread on my desk, the glasses on top of my notebook and the lit microscope. It was an innocent statement save for the fact that over the past few years, raining season in Philadelphia had become synonymous with serial killers and drowned children.

"Then I'll be far away from here…" I replied distantly, my attention drifting to the nearby window and the shower outside. I switched focus back to Jane, noting the worried look on her face.

"Back at GW Uni and hopefully the Smithsonian still has an opening for me," I chirped with a forced cheerful tone. "Eh, I guess I should get back to w-"

Jane interrupted by physically putting her hand on my left arm and her grey eyes locked on mine. "Oh no, you don't. You need a break. C'mon, let's grab lunch."

* * *

After the break, I spent the remaining working hours going over the rest of the biological samples from the latest crime scene. I went over the DNA sequences and compared them to existing databases. As with the other cases, nothing came up of interest. All samples recovered turned out to be a dead end. The only matches I got were of the victim and police officers that had contaminated the crime scene. The victim's blood analysis showed an extremely low O2 saturation, as you'd expect after a drowning, and as with the other victims the low blood glucose and lipid levels suggested a prolonged state of exhaustion and low, possibly no intake of nutrients from the time of abduction to the time of death. Doing my best to put my emotions aside, I carefully noted down everything, logged the evidence and my findings according to protocol and had my supervisor and head of the forensic section, Dr. Gabriela Mortiz, approve my work. Having read about the infamous O.J. Simpson case, I knew all too well how a set of skillful lawyers would be able to find and exploit even minor routine slips in the handling and processing of evidence, creating enough reasonable doubt to get a murderer free of all charges. I carefully did everything by the book and had Gabs, as she insisted to be called, supervise my notes and double-check my findings. From what I'd heard, this level of scrutiny was unfortunately not always the case here at Philadelphia PD. Word had it that the chief investigator of the Origami Killer case, Lt. Carter Blake, was unconventional to put it mildly and not in a good way. In the short time I'd been here, Gabs had on more occasions than one let out verbal frustration of Lt. Blake's crude methods and in-your-face arrogance. I'd briefly met him, and it had not been a pleasant experience. He was also lousy at replying to emails. I suspected he rarely bothered to check his work mail at all.

Jotting down notes I halfheartedly listened to the conversation going on behind my back. Jane was talking to the mass spectrometry guy. What was his name again? Ian? Ira? He'd been late for work and had missed the morning brief. Now that Gabs was in a meeting with Captain Perry, head of the Philadelphia PD's homicide division, to prepare for this evening's press conference he'd asked Jane for a recap. The meeting had been mostly uneventful, with the usual routine reports and status quo updates. The only interesting news was that a profiler from the FBI were to arrive over the weekend to assist in the investigation. I was curious as to why the FBI had not been involved earlier. Gabs had mumbled something about Captain Perry, pigheadedness and egocentric pride.

"Inferiority complexes." Jane had scoffed, rolling her eyes. "They don't want some pencil-pusher from the capital in on their turf. Especially one who outranks them." I was not impressed with the implications that their own professional pride had gotten in the way of the investigation.

"The Feds have their own shrinks!" Ian/Ira exclaimed as it was the most surprising thing he'd learned since I'd told him that peanuts are not actually nuts.

* * *

After work, Jane and I made our way to the local OCF Coffee House, where we found a quiet corner to sip away at our drinks. Despite the weather, Jane had changed into her trademark black and blue stilettos and low-cut slim-fit jeans but she was wearing the same white blouse as she had at work. A simple and clean look that worked to her advantage. Chic, bob-cut brunette hair graciously framed her beautiful face. With my love for _boho_ -chic inspired clothes and jewelry, complete with a nautilus tattoo, multiple bracelets, nose jewelry and messy ponytail, we were polar opposites of each other.

We chatted about work, my studies and what she'd wear on her date the next day when this guy came barging in, clearly agitated. All heads turned as he was shouting on his phone about what sounded like a near-death experience. Apparently a nutter had been racing at full speed in the wrong traffic lane on the highway, nearly ramming into phone guy's car in the process.

"If you drive against traffic on _that_ highway in _this_ weather, you're not just an idiot or a daredevil, you're suicidal," Jane mumbled. The guy kept yelling into his phone for several minutes, gesticulating like mad. As he was soaking wet from the shower outside, his frantic arm movements showered most of the nearby guests with rainwater.

A couple of hours later, Jane excused herself and headed to the nearest shopping mall. I sat for another twenty minutes or so flipping through my phone. The buzz of conversations nearby felt soothing. I was by myself, but not alone. When the battery was down at 23%, I figured it was time to head home. It was still raining cats and dogs outside, the mere sight made me shiver. I order a hot chocolate to go from the barista, mentally imagining taking a hot shower and tucking myself in a thick, cozy blanket accompanied by a hot cup of tea.

As I was about to leave the coffee house with my newly made beverage, a woman slightly taller than me hasted through the door knocking the hot drink out of my hands and all over the floor and my shoulder bag. Flustered, she fished out a Kleenex and started wiping my bag while apologizing and insisting on buying me a new one. Before I could tell her not to worry, she was at the counter. A minute later, she returned with two hot drinks - in mugs.

"I- I am sorry, I forgot to say it was to-go. You don't mind, do you?"

I kind of did but said nothing. Despite her pale complexion, my new acquaintance had all the features of a model. A prominent but not too obvious bone structure, big, brown almond-shaped eyes, full lips and short-short brunette hair with fringes down her forehead. She was dressed in a well-worn patterned purplish-brown leather jacket, jeans and surprisingly carried no purse or handbag. I noted that while her clothes were soaking wet, her face and hair seemed dry.

She placed the drinks on a nearby table and gestured for me to sit. "At least give me the chance to properly apologize for running you over like that." She brushed the fringes from her forehead and made a gesture as to tuck the short locks behind her ear, but the fringes kept falling back. Did she recently have a haircut, perhaps?

"I- I didn't mean to… I'm normally not, I mean…" deep breath. "I've been struggling with insomnia lately and I can barely tell the difference between night and day at times. It's all just… a blur."

"Look, it's totally ok," I assured. She seemed genuinely distressed and in hopes of being reassuring, I accepted her offer but kept my coat on. I reached out my hand to introduce myself. She shook it.

"Madison Paige."

Madison presented herself as an in-between jobs photographer that due to a traumatic incident a few weeks back had been struggling with sleep, work and even regular day-to-day routines. I guess she didn't feel like talking about it as she was quick to change the topic from her to me.

"But enough about me, what do you do for a living, Lisa?"

I told her about my studies, my previous work at the Smithsonian Natural History museum, where I hoped to land a future career, and I briefly mentioned my internship at the Philadelphia PD as part of a Uni course in _forensic science and epigenetics_. I didn't feel comfortable talking about my work there. The case of the Origami Killer was under investigation and not up for discussion. As expected, that's exactly what picked Madison's attention.

"Oh." Her brows shot up and her eyes widened. "Are you… eh, have you been…" She started fondling the back of her neck and then went on to swirl her mug, likely contemplating how to casually bring up the Origami Killer case. Her eyes locked with me as she nonchalantly leaned over the table while resting her chin in her palm.

"You haven't been involved in the case of the, you know, the Origami Killer?"

I tensed, trying to figure a way to change the subject or an excuse to leave without being impolite.

"Eh, I haven't really been there for a very long time. It's just this… really short internship, you know. Six more weeks and I'll be back in D.C. They wouldn't let an intern mess with murder cases, let alone a case involving a serial killer."

I hoped she'd settle for that. It had worked for a couple of nosey neighbors earlier this week. And it wasn't a complete lie. Had it not been for the letter of recommendations from my Uni tutor and for Gabs' willfulness it would have been the truth.

"Oh, really? According to my sources – eh, I mean from what I've heard… from a friend that works at the local newspaper, there's an intern at the PD's forensic section that's been involved with the Origami Killer case. I thought it might be you?"

Sources? Contacts at the local newspaper? Maybe this 'random' meeting hadn't been so accidental after all. I suddenly had an eerie feeling of being set up. I straightened my back and chose my wording carefully.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Paige. I am not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation. I'd advise you to direct any questions you might have to Captain Leighton Perry, head of the Philadelphia PS's homicide division."

Madison seemed flustered. Hopefully she wasn't just faking it but felt genuinely embarrassed.

"Of course. I mean – eh… I just thought you might be able to tell something…"

Seemingly unsure of how to continue from here and likely feeling a bit guilty too, her words drifted off. The skin below her eyes turned a slight red.

"Look, Madison. I get it. You're a journalist or something in search of a story or you're just curious. It's all right." I got up and put my bag over my head, signaling I was ready to leave.

"But I really just want to go home now, so if you don't mind…"

"I'm sorry, Lisa. And you're right; I am looking for a story." She stepped forward and grabbed my wrist as to make sure I did not go until she'd said what was on her mind.

"Yes, I am a journalist. I work for _The American Tribune_. And I haven't had a proper story in ages… what I said about my insomnia _is_ true and I'm worried I might get fired if I don't come up with a-" She paused and her gaze dropped to the floor.

"I've been under a lot of pressure lately. Sorry."

Despite nearly being taken advantage of, and having hot chocolate spilled all over my bag I couldn't help but feel for her.

"It's okay. Really. Look, not to be rude, but it's been a long week and I'm getting kinda tired so…" To cut the conversation short I started walking towards the exit.

"Can I get your number?" Madison blurted to my back.

"Just in case something comes up that you _are_ at liberty to discuss?" I turned and she flashed me what was undoubtedly her most charming smile.

My first instinct was to politely decline, but then I heard myself giving her my phone number and watched in bewilderment as she saved it on her phone. Out on the cold, wet and crowded street I replayed the whole scenario in my head. Even if Madison's intentions hadn't exactly been pure, I had no doubt she was a nice and genuine person that had been under a lot of stress, causing her to make some bad decisions. More importantly, I was all alone in a foreign city. I had no problem being by myself, but away from family, friends, everyone and everything I knew there was no denying I'd feel lonely at times. As wonderful Jane had been to me, she had a rich social life and a huge network of contacts. She rarely entered weekends without plans that included girls' nights out, hanging out with her mother or sisters, hot dates and whatnot. I'd tagged along a couple of times but couldn't shake the notorious 'third wheel'-feel. Having another acquaintance in this foreign city felt… reassuring.

Longing to get home to my small but cozy student apartment I made my way through the crowd to the nearest bus stop. On the surface, it seemed like the usual big-city Friday evening rush with people of all ages hasting from school or work to meet up with friends or running pre-weekend errands. However, over the last few days, summer had slowly turned to fall. The seemingly never-ending rainfall that followed had unmistakably brought with it the threat of the _Origami Killer_. A suffocating, ominously present threat hanging over the city like a sinister cloud of angst and mistrust making people cautious, vary and vigilant. Passerbyers would eye one another and parents would hold on to their children when out in public places, especially in crowded areas. It was as if everybody was a possible suspect and anybody could be next. Even if the killer had only gone after young boys living in certain districts one could never know, right?

At the bus stop, people crammed together under the small rooftop to get some shelter from the relentless rain. I managed to maneuver in between the waiting crowd, tiptoeing and rubbing my icy hands. I didn't know if I was shivering from being cold or from the case I'd been working on and the effect it had on the community. The 7:15 bus was a welcoming sight. It even arrived on time for once. I sure was looking forward to a warm and quiet weekend indoors.


	2. Chapter 2

Phone in hand, I dozed off on the morning bus and nearly missed my stop. The tab was still displaying the text I'd recently received from Madison.

 _Hi, it's Mad. Sorry again for last week. Just thought I should write to you so you have my number as well. Text me if you want to grab a coffee or something._

I lazily rose from my seat, exited the sliding door and started on the two-hundred-yard walk to the precinct. Cool air and raindrops on my skin whisked away the drowsiness. I tightened the belt around my coat and readjusted my shoulder bag. Monday morning and I was already looking forward to the weekend. After talking to my mom yesterday I'd scheduled a weekend trip back home. I'd ask Gabs for Friday off, so that I could leave already on Thursday. As long as I promised to work late the other days, surely she'd be fine with it.

I had to admit, hearing from Madison made me happy. The thought of meeting up with someone from outside the precinct made me happy. However, should I really be befriending a journalist considering the circumstances? Circling the final corner before the precinct, I tucked the phone back inside my brown leather shoulder bag. I had to think about how to respond.

Even at a distance, it was obvious there was something going on at the precinct besides the usual morning rush. Upon arriving, I was nearly run over by four to five people hasting through the entrance. I recognized all but one guy in his early-to-mid thirties, which I had no recollection of. He apologized to me as he brushed my shoulder on his way out. "No worries," I mumbled as my attention drifted to the precinct's main hall, buzzing with activity. Men and women were darting back and forth all over the place, talking to each other or on the phone. Bewildered, I hasted down to the lab on the floor below. It took me less than half a minute to figure out what the commotion was about. The Origami Killer had claimed their eight victim. With victim number seven found shortly after my arrival, this was the shortest interval between two victims. It was shaping up to be a bloody fall. I suddenly felt light-headed and short of breath. Fearing I could pass out at any moment, I hurried to the ladies' room. Leaning against the sink, I tried to get control of my breathing. Ten seconds later, Jane was in there with me and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Hey, hey. What is this, huh? What's wrong, hun?"

She pulled me in and gave me a solid hug. It was like turning on a faucet of emotions. I started sobbing and shaking uncontrollably.

"Here, here," Jane reassured. After I'd calmed down somewhat, she backed off a little to take a look at my messed-up face and wipe away the tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Hey. I know it's tough, ok? It bites! Bad things happen to people that don't deserve it. Then we find out what, how and who. It's what we do here."

"I know, I know. I'm just… I didn't expect it to be like this."

"I know." Jane sighed and hugged me again. "The same happened to me when I started working here. In fact, it happens to us all. It's normal. It's… human. And the thing is, it doesn't come right away. In the beginning, we're too busy adjusting to a new place and unfamiliar routines. It comes after a few days or even weeks. Like with you now."

I nodded. Initially, I'd been so excited about working here, being supervised by Gabs and the chance of being involved in an ongoing investigation of a serial killer. I was emotionally prepared for some turmoil, but not this backlash. Despite being late, Gabs came in to check on me and to offer a few words of encouragement. Then she hasted to the crime scene. Blake, who'd been there for over an hour already, had left her three angry voice mails.

For the hours to follow, I buried myself in work to avoid reflecting on my emotional state. Gabs and her assistant were busy performing the autopsy and I didn't see them for the rest of the day. Ira was studying pollen samples found near the victim. Jane examined hi-res pictures of footprints and tire tracks located at the crime scene, and I analyzed biological material and the origami figure. Traces of blood matching that of the victim had been found on the railroad track adjacent to where the body had been found and on a nearby fence. All samples had the same annotation. _Detected and_ _logged by the aid of Augmented Reality Interface. Agent 47023 Norman Jayden, FBI_.

I sent a mail to Lt. Blake enquiring about the annotations as well as some practical questions regarding the circumstances of the findings, like how they'd been able to detect any traces of blood considering the continuous rainfall. I didn't expect a reply and figured I'd have to go upstairs later and talk with him in person. Yay.

"Hey, Lisa. Come take a look at this."

Staring deep into the ocular for the last thirty minutes, Jane startled me. I rolled my eyes at my own edginess and walked the three steps over to her desk. Wearing a burgundy red cotton blouse, black trousers and knee-high boots, she looked stunning. She handed me two printed sheets of paper, one was of a footprint and the other of a tire track. I put on my thick rim glasses and began to study the images. As expected, the tire dimensions and pattern had been impossible to determine due to being distorted by rain. Using the length and depth of the tracks as a reference, however, she'd been able to estimate the weight and size of the vehicle as a medium-sized passenger car of around five meters and 1.5 tons. Even more interesting, one investigator had found a set of footprints under a highway bridge that had avoided being washed away by the rain, resulting in the sole pattern being clearly visible. The resolution was way better than what you'd expect from a conventional photography, and there was even a 3D-computer model readily available. The boots, estimated to be size 11, were definitely not cop boots. Both the footprints and the tire tracks had been logged the same way as the material I'd been working on. _Detected and_ _logged by the aid of Augmented Reality Interface. Agent 47023 Norman Jayden, FBI_.

"What do you think it means?" Jane contemplated whilst scrutinizing the digital version of the images on her screen.

"I have no idea?" I admitted. "You're the one with a degree in bioengineering."

"Well, I am familiar with the term _augmented reality_ but as far as I know, it's not implemented in law enforcement in any form or means. Not to this date, anyways."

In _augmented reality_ , the physical world is augmented, as in supplemented, amplified or enlarged by computer-generated sensory input such as sound, video, GPS data etc. This is in contrast to _virtual reality_ , which completely replaces the physical reality with a, well, virtual one.

I held up the print of the suspicious footprint. "This quality is…"

Jane leaned in. "Yeah, I know. It's like nothing I've ever seen before."

"Have you tried to email Blake?"

"Yeah, like three times."

"And no reply?" Jane gave me that _do you even have to ask_ look.

* * *

The clock ticking past 3:30 pm and Blake had yet to respond to our emails. Or look at them for that matter as they were all marked as 'unread'. Jane suggested we'd go up and talk to him in person. I agreed. As much as I resented the idea of a face-to-face conversation with Lt. Blake, the investigation obviously held priority over my wellbeing. Up in the lobby, neither of us were surprised to see Blake's desk empty. According to Charlene, Captain Perry's secretary, the latest victim had recently been identified so Blake and his partner Ash were out questioning the family. They were expected to return shortly.

 _Good job, Gabs._ I started pacing the foyer while Jane was busy chitchatting with Charlene. A man in his early thirties sitting outside Captain Perry's office, which I recognized as the guy who'd brushed my shoulder earlier, caught my eye. I don't know what was most strange, the fact that he was wearing sunglasses inside or that he had a black leather glove on his right hand only, which he was repeatedly jerking up and down as if throwing something.

Leaning in for a closer look I noticed there was something written on the side of the glasses. It looked like the Greek letter delta followed by the letters _RI_? It could also be an _A_. Did it spell _ARI?_ As in _Augmented Reality Interface?_ I recalled the unconventionally logged evidence and approached the sunglass-sporting guy with the peculiar hand movement.

"Um, excuse me. Sir? Could I… Eh, do you have a minute?"

He quickly removed the glove and took off the glasses. I reached out my arm.

"Hi, I'm Lisa Moana, part of the CSI-team."

He rose to his feet and shook my outstretched hand. In a soft and low-key tone, he presented himself.

"Norman Jayden, FBI."

Light green eyes met my own hazel brown. I noted a small, fresh-looking cut on his right cheek.

"Sorry for disturbing, agent Jayden. But I couldn't help but notice that most of the data from the Origami Killer's latest victim has been logged by something called Augmented Reality Interface."

"Um, yeah. It was done by the use of these." The FBI agent pulled out the shades he'd recently pocketed. "It's an evidence detecting system in development by the FBI's R&D," he willingly relayed. "Among other things, they emit ultrasonic soundwaves. When the waves are reflected off nearby surfaces, detectors located here will register the reflection." His finger traced the rims.

"By echolocation?" I mused.

"Yeah, basically. The technology, which combines ultrasound, laser, ultraviolet and infrared radiation, allows for detection of possible clues that would normally go unnoticed by the human eye, like traces of blood, give detailed imagery of footprints, tire tracks and so forth." He fished out the glove he'd been wearing and pointed at several small, blue, spherical orbs scattered around the palm area.

"This _Smart_ Glove allows the user to physically interact with the objects or items detected and the surrounding environment. Information is then streamed to ARI's internal memory or an external computer via sensors in the glove."

Awe-struck and moping like an idiot over the awesomeness I'd just been told, I couldn't help but to completely geek out.

"Whoa, this is so cool! I actually read about a prototype in a tech magazine a while back. I had no idea they were actually being used in the field." I gestured towards the augmented reality interface system. "May I? I promise I'll be careful."

He hesitantly handed me the shades. Mesmerized, I gently traced the surface as I felt the weight of this innovating technological marvel in my hands. From a distance, the ARI had looked like any ordinary half-rim sunglasses. On closer inspection, one could clearly see that the lenses consisted of numerous tiny hexagonal lenses reminiscent of a fly's eye. The temples were lined with buttons and switches. They were slightly heavier than conventional sunglasses, but surprisingly lightweight considering their intended use. I wondered what kind of material they'd been made of.

I showcased the glasses and mimicked his hand movement from before with the other hand.

"Is this why you were… like _this_ earlier?"

I saw it as a quirky, but funny gesture intended to make him smile, but instead he seemed bewildered, followed by embarrassed. I quickly steered the conversation back to the fancy goggles.

"Can you access the FBI databases? How much memory do they have? Can you like, snap photos, do video recordings and stuff like that? What's the battery's longevity? What sort of data can you detect and log?"

Captain Perry came out of his office cutting our conversation, or rather, my bombardment of questions, short. I handed back the cool shades and reluctantly turned to Blake as he and Ash had returned from questioning the victim's family with a dissatisfied look on their faces.

"The mother's still in shock. I couldn't get a single full sentence out of her. Goddammit!"

Blake shrugged and plumped down on his chair. "I'll try again in a couple of days, but it's a waste of time. The parents never have anything useful to tell. It's always the same story. He was such a good boy, why would anyone want to hurt him, I only took my eyes from his for a few seconds blah, blah, blah…"

I was tempted to make a sardonic comment on how sorry I was for him that the grieving parents made his job so damn difficult but bit my tongue. Jane attempted to bring up the subject of the unread emails, but Blake was apparently too 'busy' to talk to us and told us to wait till the next day after the staff meeting.

Perry had apparently finished talking to the FBI agent as he shouted with a grating voice high enough for the entire foyer to hear; "Oh, and check in on the press conference if you're interested. It'll give you an idea of the political climate around here. Welcome to the club, Jayden."

"Thank you, sir." Jayden's response was polite and neutral, but his tone revealed discontent.

 _That's Captain Perry for you all right, more concerned about politics than catching the perpetrator._

Jane nudged my shoulder. "Should we check in on it too? Since there's a new victim and all? They usually don't last long and it'll help us prepare for the meeting tomorrow." I shrugged and wondered what she meant by _and all_. The FBI's involvement, most likely.

The media room was filled with impatiently waiting reporters, photographers and camera operators. As most were standing upright, Jane and I managed to find two empty seats next to each other on the second to last row. I spotted the FBI agent leaning over a chair a couple of rows in front of us. The press conference started at exactly four pm. The first half was Perry confirming what most had been suspecting. The body that had been found this morning was that of twelve-year-old Jeremy Bowles, and it did indeed seem to be the work of the Origami Killer. The second half was reserved for questions. About twenty hands flew in the air. The questions that followed ranged from dumb to half-intelligent to ludicrous.

"You said the methodology indicated another victim for the Origami Killer. Can you be more specific?"

"The Zodiac killer was never identified. Perhaps the Origami Killer will never be found either?"

"Did the killer leave any written evidence, like a ransom note?"

A female reporter rose and spoke with a soft, but firm and steady tone. "Some people are saying that the police were slow to take an interest in these murders because the victims lived in poorer parts of the city. What do you say to that?"

Feeling sure I'd heard that voice before, I turned to face the woman speaking. It was Madison.

"That's absurd!" Perry exclaimed. To defuse the situation, he continued; "The police makes no distinction between victims based on their social class. It is true that the Origami Killer seem to choose his victims from the more impoverished parts of town. The higher crime rate in these areas makes the investigation more difficult."

Madison tried to deliver a follow-up question, but Perry was quick to shift the attention to a man asking about the FBI's involvement. Next, another journalist implied that the Town Hall had been trying to shush down the Origami Killer case so as to not overshadow or cloud the mayor's upcoming election campaign. Perry pretty much cut the press conference short after fiercely denying any such accusations and the room cleared out. I made eye contact with Madison and waved at her. She returned my greeting. I signaled for Jane to wait for me outside.

Pale, fatigued and with obvious, dark circles under her eyes, the poor woman looked even worse than she had when I met her last Friday.

"You look exhausted." I stated. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah… damn insomnia. I _am_ exhausted but I can barely sleep. And when I finally do I get these intense, vivid nightmares. Sleeping meds aren't doing me any good either. In fact, recently they've only made things worse."

"Should you really be working? Lack of sleep affects concentration, memory, judgement…"

Madison seemed uneasy. "Believe me, I know. I'm just trying to keep busy as it might actually help me sleep. I hope. And besides, I still have to make a living."

Fair enough. I changed the subject. "Hey, that question… that was ballsy of you."

Madison beamed. "Thanks. It was a mix of desperation and indifference I guess."

I gave her a puzzled look.

"As in, desperate to make a living and indifference because of sleep deprivation."

I chuckled. "Ah, I see. Oh, thanks for the text by the way."

"So, have you been thinking about my offer?"

"I have... and look, I really appreciate it. But with this last victim, you know… today's been totally crazy and this week is just gonna be… like, _woo-hah_." I made a half circle with my arms to illustrate the imagined, upcoming workload.

"I understand. If you should change your mind you know how to reach me."

Still having work to do down at the lab I bid Madison farewell and reunited with Jane. Well aware I didn't know anyone in town she was curious as to whom I'd been talking to. With everything that'd happened I'd completely forgotten to tell her about last week's run-in with Madison at the café after she'd left. As we headed downstairs, I gave her the full story. Jane's look went from curious to amused and then to wary. When I informed my co-worker that I was considering meeting up with Madison again she frowned and her mouth curled.

"What?" I hissed defensively.

"I'm not so sure about this, Lisa…"

"Hey, you're the one who keeps pointing out my lacking social life."

"It's not that. I'm glad you're meeting new people. It's just that, I don't think it's a good idea to be in contact with a journalist that tried to pump you for information?"

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that. And of course I'll be careful with what I tell her. It's just… I need a friend."

Jane's lips parted and her eyes widened. Then she went cold. "Ok, I see…"

"No offence, Jane."

"Some taken, actually."

"Look, you've been great to me. But, you're from the New York upper-class. With… a lot of, well, class. And friends. And plans. Like, lot of plans. And here I am, a tattooed, boho-dressing, geeky girl from San Fran…."

I grew up in San Francisco but after my mother got a job offer at the Capitol a few years back, my family moved to D.C. I was thrilled about the opportunity of a future career at the Smithsonian, but there was no denying I missed the West Coast.

Jane cut me off, looking genuinely hurt. "Do you think I hang out with you because I feel like it's my duty or something? All the stuff you mentioned, that's what I love about you. You're so different than everyone and everything I grew up with." Her sincere confession moved me, and I suddenly felt like an idiot. She then went on to act in a manner that was meant to resemble my own. Times ten.

"It so happens I think you're like, really cool and all, and I totally hang out with you because I like, really enjoy your company." Seeing the ever so classy and posh Jane trying to mimic my tone and body language, I couldn't help but to laugh out loud.

"Oh, how was your date?"

Jane waved it off and gave me a _don't go there_ look.


	3. Chapter 3

I arrived early the next morning, well in time for the compulsory staff meeting. As a new victim had turned up, everyone involved in the Origami Killer case were obliged to meet and exchange information to make sure the whole team was up to date. In addition, the FBI agent was to present the killer's profile. I was to present the lab results. Normally that's Jane's job but Gabs wanted me to have a go at it, as it would be valuable experience. The meeting was about to start, and the brief room was quickly filling up with people. Jane, Gabs, Ira, the Captain, Blake and the other officers, that FBI guy...

Captain Perry commenced the meeting precisely at 9 am by wishing everyone welcome and gave a brief overview of the order of presenters. I was last. Blake was the first to speak. With an orotund voice, the middle-aged lieutenant presented an outline of the findings and subsequent investigation at the latest crime scene the day before. An early-bird pedestrian had discovered the body of Jeremy Bowles, aged 12, on a desolated area north of the city center around 6 am. The child had been reported missing five days prior. The crime scene appeared to be no different from previous ones. Victim had been lying on his back, covered with mud, and close to a railroad track with an orchid on his chest and an origami figure in his hand. No witnesses had stepped forward.

Next up was the FBI agent. He was dressed in a plain grey suit, blue shirt and a black tie. I noticed traces of mud at the bottom of his trousers, most likely from yesterday's crime scene investigation. He pressed a couple of buttons on the rims of the augmented reality glasses, and within a few seconds, the projector sparked to life, showcasing a slideshow. The agent placed the hi-tech gadget, the lenses displaying the words _data sending_ , on top of the projector. With a soft-spoken, modulated voice and a thick Boston accent, he presented himself as agent Norman Jayden from the FBI headquarters in Washington D.C., here to present a psychological profile on the Origami Killer as well as his mode of operations. As he started talking, he paced back and forth in front of the crowd.

"The killer is white, aged between 30 and 45. They don't act on impulse, but plans their crimes in a very meticulous fashion. They don't have anything personal against their victims which is why they cover them in mud, to make them anonymous."

"Why does he kill them if he's got nothing against them?" Ash broke in, the interruption earning an approving smirk from Lt. Blake.

"For them, the victims are more of an image, a symbol," the agent patiently explained. "That's probably why they give them an origami figure and an orchid, as gifts to apologize for what they've done to them."

"Very interesting." Blake's tone and body language however, indicated it was anything but. "And where does all that _get_ us?"

"The best way to track a predator is to be familiar with its behavior. By building a profile of the killer - or killers, we can better understand what kind of person or persons we're looking for." Jayden clicked to the next slide, headlined _Modus Operandi_ , which earned a sarcastic snort from Blake.

"That might be true in novels but there are children's life at stake here."

 _As if we already didn't know._

The comment went ignored and Jayden continued; "One detail attracted my attention. The interval between the time when a victim disappears and the time when the body is found ranges from three to five days, but the rainfall is always at six inches, give or take 10%."

"What on earth does that mean?" Perry inquired.

Jayden went on to clarify. "All the victims were drowned in rainwater. The killer kills only in the fall, when there's plenty of rain. It could be that they put them in some sorts of well or tank that is open to the sky and that fills up with rainwater."

Taking a pause from his until now relentless pacing, the FBI agent leaned against a small table along the front wall, partly blocking the presentation. What followed was a chilling revelation.

"The more it rains, the less time the victim has to live…"

I was baffled as to why this had gone unnoticed until now. Muffled whispers could be heard through the small room. Blake shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Jayden wasted no time. "Then I studied the geographical distribution of the murders. Generally, a killer commits their first murder near to where they live, so they have a safe place to flee to should any complications arise. The more confident they become, the further they roam from their base."

He clicked to reveal a new slide displaying the dates and locations of when and where the victims had disappeared.

"By analyzing the locations of where the victims disappeared, I was able to isolate a zone where the killer might live."

I was astounded. Within one day, this FBI agent had made significantly more progress than all the local offices working on the Origami Killer case combined since the killings started two years ago.

"And what size is this… 'zone'?" Blake was clearly not as impressed by agent Jayden's work.

"For the moment, about ten square miles."

Blake let out a mocking groan. "Oh, great. There must be ten thousand people living in that sort of area. You gonna question them one by one?"

Jayden rose and started pacing again, his green eyes squinting with disdain. For the first time since the meeting started, he was visibly annoyed by Blake's nonstop mockery but he remained calm.

"The more clues we get, the more we can reduce the zone. We can then crosscheck it with our list of suspects and eventually, identify the killer." He turned to Perry. "There _are_ two suspects who might fit the psychological profile that can be connected to the 'comfort' zone. I'd like to question them."

"Goddamn it, we're wasting our time here with this bullshit," Blake lashed out, clearly having an urge to yet again contribute with his wisdom and insight. "The killer is out there somewhere, and we need to get off our asses and find him before he snatches another kid!"

The hostile lieutenant was acting more and more like that class bully who would harass both the teacher and his fellow students at every opportunity possible. Now Jayden seemed downright angry. Nonetheless, he managed to keep his cool. I was impressed by his composure.

"This killer is no ordinary murderer. They're intelligent, organized and methodical. You won't find them by patrolling the streets!"

"Your so-called ' _analysis_ ' is no substitute for getting out there!"

 _What is it with this guy, didn't his parents hug him enough as a child or something?_

Blake turned left and right looking for allies. Ash and a few other officers grinned approvingly at the lieutenant. Most however, just stared at the floor. Relying on analytical work myself, his comments irked me. Blake irked me. I glanced around the small, overcrowded brief room. Despite Captain Perry being the highest-ranking officer present, there was little doubt to who the true alpha was. It was also blatantly obvious that, though he didn't seem happy with Blake's outbursts, loyalty and camaraderie would result in Perry letting Blake's derisive comments slip by. And no one else dared to object. No one but me that was.

"It's meant to be a _supplement_ , not a substitute. Sir. _Lieutenant_."

Within an instant, all eyes were on me. From the corner of my eye, I could see a faint smile on Jane's lips. Gabs kept a straight face. Her eyes approved, but her stern mouth did not. I didn't dare to look at Captain Perry. Blake merely gave me an empty glare and responded with a taunting smirk.

"Now why don't you be a good little girl and stick to your lab work!"

Perry tried the best he could to brush over the undesirable tense situation.

"Continue, Jayden."

Ignoring the Captain, Blake leaned forward in his chair. "Tell me agent Jayden, did you get your _vast_ experience on the job, or did you just FUCKING read about it in some schoolbook?"

That was the last drop. For a few seconds, Jayden lost his cool and snapped back at the lieutenant.

" _Your_ 'vast' experience hasn't prevented eight victims from being murdered!"

"FUCKING ASSHOLE!" Blake was on his feet quicker than I'd ever seen anyone getting up from a chair. Both men looked furious and for a horrifying moment, I thought they'd break out in a fistfight. Quickly regretting his outburst, the FBI agent turned to Perry and ended his talk with a calm tone.

"Captain Perry, I'm here to catch a killer. And that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Next up was Gabs, presenting the results from the autopsy. Thankfully, without interruption. She sifted through her papers and spoke with a confident, almost dull voice. Fifteen years as the Philadelphia PD's coroner, she'd done this numerous times before. Starting with some initial facts regarding the victim and the area where the body was found, she went on to present the findings from the autopsy.

"Estimated time of death is Monday September 26, between midnight and 2 am. The victim's skin condition indicates prolonged exposure to fresh water and the color of the face and lips correlates with oxygen deprivation. However, there are no signs of strangulation. The organs show no signs of poisoning, and stomach as well as intestines are empty, meaning all sustenance ingested by the victim had already been digested by the time of death. The victim's lungs were filled with fluid, and laboratory tests conducted by Dr. Hathaway confirmed this to be rainwater. Cause of death is the same as for the other victims. Jeremy Bowles was drowned in rainwater. Except for a post mortem laceration on the victim's right thigh, there are no physical injuries on the body. Lack of signs of violence or struggle suggests the victim went with the killer or abductor voluntarily, also the killer has not been holding the victim under water by force."

Finally, it was my turn. I hadn't been feeling nervous, but thanks to Blake's mockery and general unfriendliness I felt a rush of self-consciousness and uneasiness. There was no backing out however, as Captain Perry had already introduced me. I took a deep breath and gave myself a mental pep talk. What I was about to present had already been reviewed and approved by Gabs. Moreover, it was mainly just confirming what my colleagues had already said. It would be a valuable experience, nothing to stress out about. I found my place at the front of the room, gazed over the crowd, glanced quickly at my papers, cleared my throat as discreetly as I could and started speaking.

"The victim's blood analysis shows an extremely low O2-saturation, as well as a low pH-value due to increased levels of CO2 in the blood. This indicates the victim died by asphyxiation."

Cause of death had already been established like, five minutes ago. I felt like an idiot. Blake had a look on his face that was a mix of boredom and annoyance. Perry and most of the remaining audience held a straight, but apathetic face. Besides Jane, the FBI-profiler was the only one who seemed to listen with interest. He was leaning against the wall in a corner, incessantly moving his fingers to fold and unfold his hands. Jane and Gabs both gave me small nods of encouragement. I adjusted my glasses and continued.

"As with the other victims the blood cell counts and low levels of blood glucose and lipids suggest a prolonged state of exhaustion and low, possibly no intake of nutrients from the time of abduction to when the body was found. These findings confirm not only Dr. Mortiz' report, but they also support agent Jayden's hypothesis of the victims being held in a vessel that's slowly filling up with rainwater."

Blake leaned forward, clearly aggravated. "Now why don't you leave this sort of thing to us cops, hm?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your lab-nerds job is to analyze the evidence and bring us the damn results." He pointed at himself, then to Ash and his nearby colleagues. "Then _we_ conduct the investigation, _we_ make the deductions and _we_ come to the conclusions."

 _Wow, he knew all those words?_

"Yes, I know that. I meant - I was just…"

"You were just what? This isn't the bloody Smithsonian. You're not a scientist here, you're a fucking lab rat! Who also happens to dress like a scarecrow."

My mouth dropped. Usually I was able to ignore derogatory comments concerning my appearance, but this time I was in a vulnerable position. The comment hit me like a blow to the stomach.

" _Lieutenant_ Blake, just make sure your men don't compromise every single crime scene by trampling all over it and maybe _try_ to remember that you have an email address at least every once in a blue moon and I'll be more than happy to give you your damn results."

"YOU-"

"That's enough! - Stop it!"

In order to prevent a second almost-disaster, Perry and Gabs simultaneously interjected. Perry had finally had enough. "That's it! I'm calling the meeting off right now!"

"But I'm not fi-"

The Captain cut me off. "It's pointless to continue."

People started clearing the room. I threw up my hands but decided to leave without making a scene. I wasn't going to give Blake the satisfaction of seeing me upset. _Fucking asshole!_

Out in the lobby, Gabs grabbed me by the arm. "Hey, Lisa – "

"He called me a little girl!" I hissed to the coroner. "Look, I know phrased myself poorly… and I acted unprofessional, but dammit so did he."

Jane's brows shot up. " _You_ were being unprofessional?

"I have no problem with disagreements, objections, or even rebukes as long as the person presenting them is being objective and the criticism is relevant and constructive. Blake's behavior was completely uncalled for. He was condescending and he totally went all _ad hominem_ spewing out insults to me and to that FBI agent just for the heck of it. And no one said anything!"

Gabs sighed. "Blake… has his share of peculiarities, but according to Captain Perry… he's a good cop. He's… eh, well respected here at the station."

"Fine, whatever," I shrugged. I was in no mood to discuss Blake's competence and whether or not it excused his mannerisms.

"I didn't even get a chance to present Jane's and Ira's results. I should've never let that _ass_ jerk get to me like he did. Sorry I let you down."

"Don't you worry about it," Gabs reassured. "I'll be meeting with Perry later, and I'll make sure it's all included in the written abstract. _You_ just make sure to inform Blake, ok?"

I rolled my eyes. "Great."

"Hey, let's forget all about Blake, disastrous meetings and creepy serial killers for now and go get some tea."

I appreciated Jane's offer, but if I had to engage in a conversation one more minute I'd burst.

"I'll join you in a few. I just need a timeout and maybe some water."

"You sure?" Jane frowned. Her grey eyes held mine with an anxious look. I chewed on my lip and nodded. She squeezed my shoulder and headed downstairs with Gabs and Ira.

Disheartened, I filled myself a cup of cold water from the cooler and sat down by the vending machines. I rubbed the root of my nose, pushing my glasses upwards. This was not how it was supposed to play out. I'd rehearsed everything in my head, dammit. _Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._

"Is everything all right?"

It took me a few seconds to realize they were talking to me. Lifting my gaze, I saw to my surprise agent Jayden standing less than two feet away. He gestured to the nearest empty chair.

"Do you mind if I sit?"

I shrugged. We sat for a few seconds in silence. Jayden looking at me looking at my fingertips. He was the first to speak.

"I'm sorry about what happened in there."

I huffed. "Same to you. I mean… sorry that you got screwed over by Blake too."

"I'm going to talk to Captain Perry. Blake's not getting away with this."

"I doubt that'll do any good." I shifted and turned to face the FBI agent. Despite his quiet and reserved, almost aloof appearance, he nonetheless came off as caring and sympathetic. His face might be expressionless, but his eyes revealed concern.

"I haven't been here for long, but from what I understand; Blake's been acting like a jerk pretty much the entire time he's been here, and he's always gotten away with it."

"And he'll keep on acting like one until someone stop him," Jayden stated in a soft, yet firm and determined tone. "His uncooperativeness and hostility may even jeopardize the investigation."

I agreed. I slumped back in my chair and crossed my legs. My hands fumbled with the empty plastic cup. The conversation had come to a halt. Anyone else sitting beside me and I'd have excused myself at this point, but there was something about agent Jayden's presence that made me want to stay in his company a little longer.

"This was my first presentation in front of Perry and the others as part of the forensic team," I confessed, straining to hide the brittleness in my voice. "And not only did I embarrass both myself and my supervisor in front of everyone, I was also a total idiot and didn't even get to finish presenting the forensic evidence."

Jayden shifted in his chair. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

"Don't be so hard on yourself. It's because Blake was being unreasonable."

I shrugged. It didn't do much for encouragement, but I appreciated the effort.

"Look, eh, I promised Dr. Mortiz that I'd go over the remaining lab results with Blake, but I really don't feel like talking to him. Would you mind if I went over it with you instead?"

"Of course not. But I need to get some work done first. You can come by my office later."

A surge of relief shot through me. "Awesome! Eh, … great, thanks! Where's your office?"

For a fraction of a second, a hint of disgruntlement washed over his otherwise neutral expression, but within the blink of an eye, it was gone and he was back to his previous unruffled composure.

"Ask Perry's secretary. She'll point you the way."

Agent Jayden exhibited a cool attitude and had a soothing, gentle voice. His calming demeanor made me feel comfortable in his presence. I gave a faint smile in return.


	4. Chapter 4

After lunch, I knocked on the almost-hidden door to Jayden's office, located behind a corner near the rest rooms. There was no reply. I scanned the foyer, pondering where he could be, and spotted Blake in a heated conversation with Perry. The Lieutenant was frantically waving his arms while the Captain had his palms raised in a _calm down-_ manner. I was too far away to hear what they were talking about, but I'd be willing to bet dollars to doughnuts the topic was this morning's staff meeting. I turned and hammered the door again. Still nada. Maybe he'd gone to the rest room or out for a late lunch. I looked around the lobby again and saw Blake following Perry into his office. The area being Blake-free, I strode across the precinct area to ask Charlene if she'd seen agent Jayden leave his office or the building. She had not.

Clutching my bag with both hands, I paced the space in front of his office for about a minute or two, debating whether or not to push the handle to check if the door was unlocked. No, that would be intrusive. I should just leave and return in an hour or so. Then again, I had promised Gabs to inform Blake asap. I glanced in the direction of Captain Perry's office. Blake was still in there and therefore not available. However, any minute now, he'd come back out and then I'd have no choice but to go up and talk to him, giving him another reason to gloat. _Nope, no way._ I really needed to get a hold on agent Jayden. I put two fingers on the handle and carefully pushed the door ajar for a peek inside. My eyes widened. The FBI agent sat crouched up against the far end wall under a small window. I scurried inside, pushed the door close and dashed across the room in three hasty steps. Even with daylight streaming from the windows illuminating the FBI agent's face, his skin looked ghostly pale.

"Hey, HEY! Agent Jayden."

With bloodshot eyes, shallow, rapid breaths and uncontrollably shaking limbs, I feared he could collapse in a heap of convulsions any minute. His complexion had a grey-ish, almost transparent appearance and a small stream of blood trickled from his nose. I shook his shoulder and repeated his name. No response. Shit! What was his first name again? I pulled out an ID badge from a pocket at the inside of his suit jacket. It read: special agent Norman Jayden. That's it. _Norman._ Of course.

"Hey, Jayden. _Norman_. Norman, can you hear me?"

His head turned slightly and he tried to speak but could only produce a fain squeak. Though he had difficulty communicating, he seemed to be aware of my presence. I checked his pulse. It was faint, but detectable. I counted well over 100 BPM. I touched his forehead. His skin felt cold and clammy. He had all the symptoms of low blood pressure and could pass out any minute. What on earth was wrong with him? An epileptic fit? Diabetic shock? Anaphylactic shock? None of these explained the nosebleed, though. I tried searching his pockets for medicine, but he brushed me off.

"I'll go get help, I'll be right back." I started to rise, but a firm grip on my sleeve held me back. With all the strength he could muster, Jayden held on to my arm and looked directly at me, though he could barely keep his eyes open.

"No… please. Don't." He spoke with a slurred, drowsy voice.

"But you're sick," I argued. "You need to see a doctor. I'll go and get-"

"No. Don't… no one must see me… like this."

"Well, I'm not leaving you like this."

"I'll be fine."

Fine my _ass_. I hesitated for a moment, rushing through options and emotions. Concern for his health and wellbeing mixed in with annoyance over his stubbornness, though I could understand he didn't want anyone, especially Blake, to see him in such a condition. Nevertheless, I couldn't just up and leave him like this. As he drifted off again, I leaned in close to his face and shook his shoulder as hard as I dared. When he finally looked at me, I said in a firm tone.

"Either I escort you to your hotel or wherever it is you're staying, or I'll have Charlene call a doctor. Your choice."

For a brief moment, I was sure he'd dispute, but eventually he nodded in agreement. For the former, I assumed.

"Ok, we have to get you up and moving. Do you think you can stand, Norman?"

He tried to rise, but staggered. Crouching next to him, I held onto his elbow to lend support. Gripping the wall with his left hand while leaning on me, he eventually managed to pull himself to his feet. I fished out a cloth from my bag and wiped the blood from under his nose. His right arm around my shoulder and my left arm around his waist, he was leaning heavily on me. Luckily, he was not a big guy, but I could still feel his weight doing its best to push me over.

 _Yeah, this isn't going to draw attention at all._

Doing my best to keep a low profile, I guided him out of the tiny office and along the wall to the nearest elevator. Blake and Perry were nowhere to be seen and Charlene had her back to us.

"Car or taxi?" I whispered.

"Huh?"

I groaned. "Do you have a car or do I need to get us a taxi?"

"Car." It was barely audible.

At the garage sublevel, he pointed out his jacket in the wardrobe. From one of his pockets, I fished out car keys and a small paper folder that held a key card from Westfield Resort. I helped him with his jacket and dropped him on the nearest chair to toss on my coat and scarf. We stumbled our way through the garage and I eventually found his car by repeatedly pressing the button on the electronic key. As I opened the door to the passenger seat, Jayden's legs gave in and he nearly dragged me to the floor. Leaning heavily on the hood, I helped him into the car and leaned over his lap to secure the seat belt. He was aware but struggled with maintaining consciousness. Tiny drops of sweat had formed above his upper lip and his eyes looked glazed. The hotel's address was printed on the paper folder, which I plotted into the GPS. Westfield was located downtown, a good fifteen-minute drive depending on the traffic. Out of the garage and on the road, I called Jane and put the speaker on so that I could have both hands on the steering wheel. She replied almost immediately.

"Hey Jane, it's me. Listen, I need you to do me a huge favor."

"Lisa, where are you? You said you'd be back in ten. It's absolutely crazy here!"

"I'll tell you later. Look, something came up and I need you to cover for me."

"What! Why? What's wrong? Where are you? Are you still at the station?"

I glanced at Jayden, who was mumbling something to himself as he was leaning his head against the window. His hands were still trembling.

"I don't have time to explain. But I have to leave the precinct for a while and I need you to -"

"I'm sorry hun, but I'm running my ass off here. I don't have time for-"

"Please, Jane. I promise I'll be back in an hour and I'll help you with whatever you need for as long as you need me. Just cover for me this time. I wouldn't ask unless it was like, super important."

"If this is about the meeting earlier- "

"No! It's not, I promise."

"Ok," she agreed after two seconds of hesitation.

"Thank you so much, Jane. You're the best. I owe you one."

I hung up and huffed a sigh of relief. Jayden was still muttering to himself.

"Must… resist. Don't… give in."

What the hell? _Resist?_ _Is he using?_ I suddenly realized. He was having withdrawal symptoms. _Fuck!_

After another ten minutes, we reached the hotel. Jayden's skin had changed from ash-grey to white and he could walk somewhat steadier. Despite continuous protests, I helped him to his room. It was on the fifteenth floor and looked like your average, plain, run-of-the-mill three-star hotel room. The bed took up most of the space. There was a small desk by the window, and a lamp and chair in one of the corners. Opposite the bed was a tiny table mounted to the wall and a huge mirror hanging above.

"I'll take it… from… here." Jayden stuttered. "You don't have to… be- "

"As long as there's a chance you might choke on your own vomit, I'm not leaving your side," I stated in a tone that clearly meant this was not up for discussion.

He staggered to the bathroom and applied cold water to his face. It seemed to have a temporary effect, but he was still shaking bad and hyperventilating.

"I can beat _this_." The whisper was almost inaudible. Clinging to the sink, his fingers curled into a fist as he groaned in pain.

 _Damn junkie. I don't have time for this._ _Fuck it._ I helped the FBI agent out of his outer coat and suit jacket, pushed him into the shower, turned the handle to blue and switched on the water. The cold stream made his body jerk and he screamed out in shock. In a matter of seconds, he calmed down and his gaze cleared. Leaning against the wall he slowly sunk to the floor, rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his arms. I sat down next to him, making sure to keep my distance from the running water. His face gradually regained color, but he was still shivering from the withdrawal symptoms. Or maybe it was from sobbing, I couldn't really tell.

"Please… go. Leave me alone."

Figuring he was no longer in immediate danger, I rose and moved his travel bag into the bathroom so he had some dry clothes to put on.

"Oh, by the way. You're welcome," I added in an over-the-top sarcastic tone.

I paced the tiny hotel room, fiddling with my bracelets. What a crazy week and it was only Tuesday! I noted a faint scent of cigarette smoke. The ashtray on the small table seemed unused. The smell was probably lingering from years of smoking guests. I stretched my neck, inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. _This is none of my business. I should just leave and get back to the precinct._ Jane was waiting for me and I had a ton of work to do before my weekend trip home. _I don't even know the guy and he clearly doesn't want me here any ways._ I gazed out the panorama window and the downtown area. Great view. Still pouring down. _Then why did I leave his bag in there with him?_ I caught my reflection in the mirror. _I should leave… but I won't._ _That's not who I am._ I leaned forward, checked my complexion and eyeliner and adjusted my glasses. Blake's words from yesterday echoed in my mind. It wasn't the first time I'd been judged or even harassed because of appearance alone, but it had definitely been the cruelest. _I_ knew better than to make first impression judgements. I didn't know Jayden or the story behind his drug use. Or abuse. Or whatever it was. What I did know, was that right here, right now, I was all he had. And I couldn't turn my back on that. Sitting down on the bed, I texted Jane, then my mom. About ten minutes later, Jayden came out of the bathroom dressed in a white shirt and coal grey trousers, looking fatigued but aware. And mortified. He didn't seem too thrilled to find out I was still here. I rose.

"Feeling better?"

"Um, eh... yeah," he replied vaguely, avoiding my gaze. He started fiddling with his sleeves.

"Ok, good." I approached him with a rigid poise. There was no point in beating around the bush.

"So, what are you using?"

Jayden stopped buttoning the sleeve. "Excuse me?"

"You know what I mean."

"Eh, I- it's nothing. It was probably something I ate."

"You don't get nosebleeds from food poisoning, Norman. I recognize withdrawal symptoms when I see them. What are you on? Coke? Meth?"

"I-I… it's…"

I raised my palms and lowered my shoulders to adapt a more relaxed, less defensive body language. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that this is clearly not good for you." I tried to get eye contact, but he avoided looking directly at me.

"When you get withdrawal symptoms like that Norman, it's getting out of hand."

Jayden slumped on the bed, staring blankly into the air. I sat down next to him crossing my legs in the lotus position. He eventually spoke with a brittle voice.

"I-I try to keep a handle on it, but it's getting difficult." His mouth went stern, and a frail and pained look flashed over his face. "It's getting more and more difficult."

I nodded. "Okay."

"I really am trying to resist. I never meant for it to go this far."

My expression softened. "I believe you. And I won't tell anyone. But if you can't quit on your own, you really ought to seek help."

 _And I'm going to keep my eyes on you._

He stared down at his hands and seemed lost in his thoughts. There was no point in pushing it. Not now. And I was starting to feel guilty because of the extra workload I'd pushed onto Jane.

"I have to get back to the lab. And you look like you could use some rest. I'll swing by your office tomorrow and we can go over the forensics then."

"Yeah, sure. No problem." Within the blink of an eye, he was back to his usual, composed self.

I put my hand on his wrist and squeezed softly. "Take care, Norman."

He mumbled something as I headed in the direction of the door.

"Lisa?"

I turned. Jayden stood upright and finally his eyes met mine.

"Thanks."

I cooked a smile.

"Sure."


	5. Chapter 5

Wednesday post lunch and I once again found myself knocking on the door to agent Jayden's makeshift office with the intent of going over the forensics from the Origami Killer's latest crime scene. And in the light of yesterday's events, to check up on him as well. This time he opened right away. His eyes avoiding mine, he muttered what sounded like a greeting of sorts.

 _Yeah… this isn't going to be awkward at all._

Stepping into the small room, I had my first proper look around as the day before I'd been too concerned about Jayden's wellbeing to pay attention to the decor. No wonder he'd seemed so dissatisfied yesterday when I asked him about his office. The room held a small desk, some molded cardboard boxes, an old file cabinet, which looked ready to collapse at any minute, and a tattered cork board. The only source of light was a row of dirty windows near the ceiling at the far end from the door. The air was thick with dust, making my nose tickle. Yellow-ish paint were scaling off the walls. It was obvious no one had bothered to clean in here for years.

"Not much of an office…" the FBI-agent snorted, as if reading my mind. "It's more like a big cupboard."

I had to agree. It seemed more like a forgotten storage room than a workplace.

"Hey, it's not _that_ bad," I chirped in an attempt to ease the tension. "It- eh…" I threw out my left hand. "It totally got this vintage flair complete with cob webs and everything."

"These guys must _really_ love the FBI," Jayden continued in a tone brimming with sarcasm, ignoring my attempt at wittiness.

I sauntered up to the counter and ran my index across the dust-covered desktop. It was littered with several recently-made fingerprints most likely stemming from Jayden. Wiping my fingertip clean, my eyes scanned the workspace. I wrinkled my nose. The premises were not… ideal.

"Hey, why don't we go down to the lab?" I peeped enthusiastically.

Jayden's right hand rose to his chest and he made a swift, almost imperceptible pat over the suit's inner pocket where the fancy glasses were resting.

"I prefer to work in quiet and secluded areas," he responded whilst rubbing his chin with his fingertips. "It helps me concentrate."

 _And you get to use your super cool glasses._ Fair enough. Furthermore, considering yesterday's events I reckoned he wasn't too thrilled at the thought of my company. Nevertheless, I wasn't about to give up that easily.

"Err, well… the lab does have this really neat chill zone we can use…" I started fiddling with my rings, twiddling them round my fingers. "…and the coffee is like, way better than up here. Or, at least that's what I've been told. I'm kinda more of a tea person myself."

Jayden still seemed hesitant. For a brief moment, I was sure he'd decline. But after a couple of seconds, he adapted a slightly more relaxed pose and his hand dropped to his side.

"All right. Show me the way."

On our way down to the lab I tried my best to keep a casual conversation going but received mostly one-word responses. The walk took about two minutes, but it felt more like twenty. Upon entering the lunchroom, a surge of relief jolted my tummy as I spotted Jane and Ira chatting by the coffee machine. Almost sprinting up to my baffled co-workers, and going overboard with exaggerated hand gestures, I introduced them to agent Jayden.

"Here are two of my colleagues, Jane Lavigna and Ira Hathaway."

The usual hand-shaking and courtesies followed.

"You're the guy with the augmented reality glasses, aren't ya?" Jane enquired, although it came across as a statement rather than a question. "Mind if I take a look?"

"I guess not…" Jayden carefully unpocketed the futuristic shades and handed them over to an overjoyed Jane.

"Bioengineering major from MIT here. I'll be sure to handle this baby with the utmost care," she assured with a cheeky grin.

Jayden raised a brow. "Bioengineering, that's impressive. What's your area of expertise?"

"Computer-assisted tomography and magnetic resonance imaging," Jane informed, beaming from ear to ear. "I render 3D images of hair samples, tire tracks, footprints… stuff like that. Then I analyze and interpret the results."

Ira chuckled as Jane made her way to her computer.

"I bet porn would be amazing with those."

I rolled my eyes. _Thanks, Ira._

Ignoring the lewd comment, I gave the FBI-agent a quick tour around the lab where I pointed out the main work stations, starting with the two massive contraptions over by the far-left corner.

"Mass spec and HPLC over there. That's Ira's turf. With those babies he can run anything from pollen samples to stomach content."

"And this is where Jane does her magic." I turned to face my good colleague and friend, who was now happily ignoring all three of us. Grinning like a true geek, I gestured towards my own desk.

"This is me. I'm the – well, eh -me, Jane and Ira are the lab geeks analyzing clues, evidence or whatever you guys uncover. Which… you probably already knew."

 _Great!_ Why did I always insist on delivering the most awkward, obvious and half-witted pieces of information? Mentally face palming, I prayed I hadn't come across as too much of an idiot. Index and middle fingers tracing his jawline, Jayden's attention drifted between the different work areas, his eyes lingering on my workspace. Despite the stoic appearance, he seemed to be genuinely intrigued?

"My very own desk, complete with a double eyepiece microscope hooked up to an LCD flat screen, a digital tape recorder and three drawers complete with office supplies all to myself. What more could a girl possibly want, eh?"

Did I imagine it, or was that a hint of a smile on the FBI-agent's lips?

"Ok, chill zone's over here."

Returning to the breakroom, I found us a place in a quiet corner. I crossed my legs on the couch and spread my papers on the table. Jayden reached for the suit's inner pocket but lowered his hand. He started shifting through the spread-out papers, visibly uncomfortable in the absence of the hi-tech shades.

"I'm gonna get a cup of tea. You want a coffee or something? I promise, it's way better than up there."

"Um, yeah. Coffee please."

Hasting over to the kitchen counter I prepared my customary blackcurrant tea with two beads of sweetener and poured black coffee for agent Jayden.

"Milk or sugar?"

"No thanks," I heard from behind my back.

Returning with two mugs of warm beverage, the shades had returned to the FBI-agent.

"So what else can this thing do?" I queried as I handed him his coffee. He looked like a question mark at me. I went on to elaborate. "On Monday, when you showed me the ARI, you said something along the lines of _among other things_. What did you mean by that?"

I'd put my faith in the fancy goggles being an ice-breaker, but Jayden seemed less keen on talking about the cool shades than he had two days ago. Or maybe he was just unprepared for the question.

"Um, well storage and analysis of evidence and case files as well as applying data to virtual maps for geoanalysis. That's how I was able to determine the killer's 'comfort' zone."

"And you can do all this in real time. While wearing the ARI?"

Jayden took a sip and gave an affirmative nod. The beverage appeared to be to his liking.

"Anything else?"

"Like what?"

 _I don't know, they're your damn glasses._

"Any sort of… entertainment?" I suggested.

Jayden seemed unsure on how to respond. His hands swirled the porcelain mug, creating a mini-whirlpool in the hot fluid.

"Why do you ask?"

I shrugged. "Curiosity."

"Well, it can render calming environments to help the user relax and focus, allowing for better concentration, enhanced productivity and overall higher work efficiency."

"Like...?"

"One example of such an augmented environment is an underwater simulation."

"Under water?! As in, you can see yourself beneath sea level?"

"Yeah."

"With fish swimming by and all?"

Mimicking said fish, I made swirling gestures with my left arm. Jayden cooked an almost indiscernible smile.

"With auditory sensory input in addition to the visual, the environments can be rather immersive," he added. "In addition, ARI can support simple entertainment software."

 _Like, throwing a ball against a wall, perhaps?_

I never got the chance to ask the question out loud. Putting the mug on the table, Jayden was quick to steer the attention – and the conversation, to the scattered documents. As I flipped through my papers, the FBI agent gave an outline of the case's chilling history.

"Including Jeremy Bowles, there's been a total of eight victims over the past two years… all boys between 9 and 13." He went silent for a short moment after stating the victim's age range.

"The disappearances and subsequent killings always occur in the fall with dates ranging from September 20 to November 17. The bodies show no signs of violence. The victims always disappear at public places in broad daylight. And no one notices anything."

I bit my lip and twiddled my thumbs. Jayden paused and commenced stroking his jawline. I could tell he was observing me. As thrilling as it was to get insight into the actual police investigation, with an FBI profiler nonetheless, the case details never failed to give me chills. I was grateful it was agent Jayden sitting next to me and not one of those self-absorbed, smug lieutenants on the floor above.

"I'm fine," I assured. "Please, go on."

Jayden continued. "The bodies are found 3-5 days later on an isolated patch of land adjacent to a railroad track. Cause of death is always the same. Drowning. In rainwater."

All of a sudden, I realized I was chewing on my thumb, and immediately removed my hand from my mouth while trying to come up with something clever to say. I sort of succeeded.

"Considering the extent of specific details surrounding the killings, there seem to be little doubt that the perpetrator has specific intentions with each and every one of them."

I paused, letting my own words sink in. "I mean, nothing seems left to chance."

"Yeah, it's always the same ritual," Jayden confirmed. "Victims are lying on their back covered in mud with an origami in the hand, and an orchid on the chest. The victims have all been dead for less than six hours from when they are found. Which means that…"

"The killer keeps them alive for several days before they are drowned," I added, finishing his sentence. As my voice drifted, our eyes met. We sat in silence for a moment holding eye contact. As I could feel my cheeks starting to tingle, I looked away.

"Um, we do have a pretty solid shoe print, but unfortunately, according to Jane- eh, Dr. Lavigna, the tire tracks won't be of much help," I continued while tucking a hair lock behind my ear, breaking the awkward pause. "Due to the massive rainfall, dimensions and pattern proved to be impossible to determine. Dr. Lavigna did manage to estimate the vehicle as a medium-sized passenger car of around five meters and 1.5 tons."

"That's not much to go on," Jayden mumbled as he studied the images of the shoe print and tire tracks. I flipped my notebook to the side with the origami figures.

"So the origami has to be important, right? You know, as the killer always leaves one in the victim's hand and closes their fingers around it post mortem. From what I gather, the origami itself is always folded to look like a canine of sorts."

"Semiotically speaking, dogs generally represent loyalty, guidance, protection and faithfulness," Jayden apprised. "Here in the western world, they're usually seen as companion animals."

The agent reached for the ARI, came to a halt mid-air, and readjusted himself. The fancy, hi-tech goggles weren't suited for co-op.

"Err, do you know if there are any origami stores in town?"

"There's one uptown, but this is not made of origami paper." I held up a picture of the figure found in the latest victim's hand. "It's made of standard paper, the type that can be bought in any paper supply store. And the figurine was also clean of prints or other clues."

As expected, Jayden looked even more disgruntled. I moved on to the orchid. "The flower left on the victim's chest is an orchid belonging to the _Phalaenopsis_ family. This particular species, _P. pantherina_ is native to Borneo, and interestingly enough, regarded as a symbol of innocence and is often used as a funeral flower." Reaching the last line of my notes, I felt disheartened.

"It's also very common and can be bought in any flower shop."

"It can't be ruled out that the killer might cultivate the orchids himself," Jayden added. Falling silent, he ran his fingers through his hair and proceeded with the now familiar chin-rubbing he would do whenever in deep thought. I sat back and sipped my tea, patiently waiting for him to finish. He eventually spoke.

"It seems like the only leads the killer leaves behind are those he intended to leave… he knows exactly what he's doing… right down to the tiniest detail."

He seemed so distant, so aloof, I was wondering whether he was speaking to me or to himself. Holding his hands up close to his face, he folded his palms and twiddled his fingers. After a minute or so, he readjusted and started shifting through the papers lying spread across the table. It was glaringly obvious that he was not used to working without the augmented reality device.

"The killer's most likely a male and is either unemployed or have a job that allows him a fair amount of free time. Since his comfort zone is so large he probably owns a car, or at least have access to one. He got confident early and rapidly moved away from his base… which doesn't make the investigation any easier."

More shifting through papers. "Over 3500 people questioned, over 100 suspects interrogated… and nothing. Not a single lead to go on." He threw the bundle back on the table. His eyes were yet again drifting towards the ARI.

"What about the profile?" I challenged. "At yesterday's meeting, you mentioned that by building a profile we can better understand what kind of person we're looking for. So, what do we know about the killer's personality? What kind of person _is_ this?"

The FBI agent replied without hesitation. "According to my profile, the killer is calm, organized, methodical, determined and highly intelligent."

"What else? I mean, that's not much to go on. Intelligent, organized and methodical, that might as well be _you_."

Jayden shot me a perplexed look.

"Just saying." I shrugged. "Heck, it could be me as well for that matter."

Dumbfounded, he seemed unsure on how to tackle my clumsy attempt at wittiness.

"It was a joke."

"Oh, ok."

I de-crossed and re-crossed my legs and twiddled my empty cup.

 _Okeey. Awkward._

"Hey, why don't we go out for a late lunch?" I suggested. Having eaten only an hour earlier, I wasn't particularly hungry but I figured a break and some fresh air would do us both some good. Jayden frowned. His attention drifted towards the window and the seemingly never-ending shower of rain.

"Yeah, I know. The weather isn't exactly ideal for an outdoor stroll, but neither is the stuff they serve here." I shot a glance at Jayden's half-filled mug. "And that coffee is probably cold by now."

A disgruntled look on the agent's face told me he'd already found out. I flashed an encouraging smile. "C'mon, let's go. There's a cozy café close by. Besides, going outside might help clear our heads."

He agreed, albeit hesitantly. We dropped by the wardrobe to get our coats and within a minute, we were out on the icy, rain-filled streets. In an attempt to stay warm, I showed my hands into my coat's side pockets and waggled my upper body back and forth at a steady rhythm.

"Goddamn rain," the FBI agent hissed to himself. Rubbing his palms, he turned to me.

"Pretty chilly, huh?"

"Mm-hm."

"Does it always rain like this?"

I squinted at the dim, cloud-filled sky.

"I guess 'tis the season… I wouldn't really know, though. I've only been here for about four weeks."

"Oh, yeah. Of course."

I strained to hold back a chuckle. Small talk was definitely not his strength, but at least he tried. I had to admit I found his social awkwardness endearing. It took us less than five minutes to reach the coffee house Jane and I frequented after work. Despite the short walk, we'd already become soaking wet from the downpour and we were both shivering. We placed our orders and seated at an empty booth near a corner. The cafe was nearly empty as most of the regulars had already had lunch and thanks to the appalling weather, random customers dropping by were few and far between. We practically had the place to ourselves. The quietness was only interrupted by the occasional buzz from the coffee machines, and soothing jazz playing in the background created the perfect tranquil and relaxing atmosphere. No augmented reality interface needed. I bit into my newly made croissant. The pastry was still warm and the soft, buttery consistency melted in my mouth. Jayden was picking at his tuna sandwich, giving off a vibe of desperately trying to come up with something to say to keep a casual conversation floating. He eventually decided to return to the fascinating topic of this season's miserable weather.

"It's really pouring down outside, huh."

This time I couldn't help but to giggle. "So, I've noticed."

Jayden seemed flustered. "Yeah, yeah, of course. I meant… um, lousy weather, isn't it?

I made a 'no worries' shrug and flashed him a gawky smile. His dorky side was simply adorable.

"I know what you meant."

I tore off a large piece of the croissant and shoved it into my mouth. My companion returned his attention to the near untouched tuna sandwich.

"So what do you do when you're not profiling criminals, Norman?"

"Um, I… I tend to work long hours at the bureau. It's not uncommon for me to get home at eight or nine in the evening. Then I eat, watch the news and go to bed."

And I thought my social life was bad. "Live to work, eh?" I chimed in. "What about the weekends?"

"If I'm not working on a case, I usually read or listen to classic or jazz… - and I play the piano."

I raised a brow. "Are you any good?"

"I've been playing since I was ten and I've been told I'm pretty decent."

Nothing of what he'd said had come as a surprise, except for the decent piano player part. And I had to admit I liked the thought of him sitting by a piano, playing beautiful harmonies. I was tempted to ask if he would play something for me one day. Would that be weird?

"What do you play?" I asked, opting for a 'safer' question.

"Um, Bach and Mozart, mostly. Sometimes Rossini, Brahms… and some Beethoven."

"The usual suspects, eh?" I cooked a smile and was rewarded with a faint chuckle.

We sat in silence for a moment, eating away at our snacks. This time it was Norman who broke the silence as my partially exposed tattoo caught his attention.

"Is that a nautilus tattoo on your arm?"

I was used to my skin art getting attention, but I didn't expect the preppy and sober FBI agent to comment on it. It actually came as such a surprise, it left me confounded for about half a second. Then my face lit up.

"It sure is!" I beamed. "I have this huge fascination for everything related to the golden ratio and the Fibonacci spiral."

Norman looked puzzled. "Excuse me?"

 _I hope you're ready for this_ I thought to myself as I pulled up my sleeve to properly reveal the tattoo and commenced tracing the helix.

"You see, this spiral right here, is what mathematicians refer to as the Fibonacci spiral and it's related to the golden ratio."

Jayden seemed intrigued. He was familiar with the term _Fibonacci_ , but not its meaning.

"A Fibonacci spiral is created with the Fibonacci sequence," I explained. "It's the sequence you get when you keep adding up the two previous numbers. And it so happens that the ratio of any two succeeding numbers in the Fibonacci sequence is equal to the golden ratio. Now here's where it gets really awesome…"

My excitement was building up. Most people would've phased out by now, but not Norman. As I explained, I eagerly gesticulated with my hands to illustrate my point, almost knocking over my not-so-hot-anymore chocolate in the process.

"The golden ratio and its accompanying spiral can be found everywhere around us. It's like this mathematical pattern repeating itself everywhere in nature. From the spirals in galaxies, to the distribution of leaves, or the seeds of a sunflower… and even in our own DNA, how cool is that!"

He was attentively listening with interest, his light green eyes twinkling like water drops. I was so excited I had someone I could share my passions with.

"Some mathematicians have even gone as far as describing the golden ratio as a universal law," I continued, encouraged by the spark in his eyes. "It is believed that many of the masters during the Italian Renaissance, like Leonardo daVinci, used the golden ratio in their work."

I suddenly realized I had the biggest, childish grin plastered all over my face. In a rush of self-consciousness, my gaze fell to my lap. I could feel my cheeks tingling. Looking back up, Norman returned my coy beam with a shy, but warm smile.

Continuing the tête-à-tête, Norman asked me about the Smithsonian. I was momentarily stupefied as to how he knew about my previous employment at the Museum of Natural History. Then I remembered Blake's mockery from the day before, where he'd used the one thing in my past I was truly proud of against me.

"Yes, well… I used to," I stuttered, still dumbfounded by my schoolgirl-blushing moment all while being mesmerized by his smile. "I'm currently a student… a PhD student, actually. Developmental biology, evolution and epigenetics."

"Epigen-what?"

The sudden, bewildered look on the FBI-agent's otherwise straight-faced expression had me choke down a snicker, resulting in unflattering snorting. Doing my best to keep cool, I shifted my full attention to the fascinating topic of epigenetics, one of my favorite subjects.

"The field of epigenetics is the study of how genes are expressed that doesn't involve changes to the actual DNA sequence, which in turn affects how cells read their genes," I fervently informed, talking with my hands as much as my mouth.

"Epigenetic changes are what makes fetal cells differentiate during development and eventually end up as skin cells, liver cells, brain cells etc., which is turn end up as, well us! But even after birth, epigenetic changes occur naturally in all our cells. Environmental factors such as lifestyle, age and certain diseases may bring about epigenetic changes which could potentially have damaging effects, like cancer. In fact, researchers all over the world are currently researching the role of epigenetics in a variety of human disorders and diseases."

I paused for a second to catch my breath. Norman was still listening with interest and let me continue my lecture without interrupting.

"You see, many diseases can be, at least partially, attributed to genetics, as in, our actual DNA sequence, and are therefore heritable. But environment and lifestyle, that's individual. Which is why I'm particularly interested in studies of identical twins and epigenetics. As identical twins have identical DNA sequences, any changes in traits like fingerprints, height, health and so forth are attributed to epigenetics. It's the whole _nature versus nurture_ question right there."

Pausing to catch my breath again, I hoped I hadn't come across as too much of a maniac.

"I'm currently an intern at the Philadelphia PD's forensic section as part of a university course in forensic science and epigenetics at the George Washington University," I explained, realizing I hadn't even answered his question. "And yes, I've previously worked at the Smithsonian. I'm hoping for a future career there researching the development and role of epigenetics during the evolution of the animal kingdom."

Thankfully, the chat between us now floated much easier. I told Norman about my upbringing in San Francisco and how I'd always loved science for as long as I can remember, and he talked about growing up in Boston with his two older brothers and how he'd always had a fascination for the human psyche. It wasn't until the café started filling up with guests that we realized it was well past three pm. Going back to the precinct, and getting soaking wet - again, I nudged his arm and made a joke about singing in the rain. He looked stumped for about one second, then he lit up a smile and I could swear I heard a faint chuckle.

 _All right. Making progress._

As we headed through the entrance to the police station, Norman's smile vanished as he faded back to his usual, unruffled expression.

"We need to talk to Blake."

The cheery tone between us died out in an instant. The thought of talking to, or even being in the same room as that grumpy, unceasingly bitter, cynical jerk of a cop made my stomach churn. Finding comfort in Norman being by my side, I braced myself as we walked up to the lieutenant's desk. Blake and Ash were both busy staring at their computer screens. Upon seeing us, Blake grimaced and his expression went from harsh to hostile while Ash ignored us. Wasting no time, Norman went straight to the point.

"We need to discuss the case."

Ash lifted his head. Blake shifted, and his head spun around as if in search of an excuse to avoid an upcoming conversation with the FBI-agent.

"Eh, I'm a little busy here…"

"Now! Is there a place we can talk in private?"

Norman made it clear he was in no mood for any bullshit from the middle-aged lieutenant. Blake shrugged, rose and guided us to the brief room. Like a marionette being controlled by its puppet master, Ash tailed behind. In silence, the four of us headed to the room where the staff meeting had taken place the day before.

Mannerisms and body language radiating passive-aggressiveness, Blake slammed the door and impatiently threw out his arms.

"Well?"

"We have some updates regarding the investigation," Norman informed, and gestured towards me. "Ms. Moana will fill you in on the forensics, and then you and I have to agree on where to go from here. I suggest we start by interrogating the suspects that are connected to the comfort zone. Then we talk to the victims' parents again."

Blake's lips literally curled downwards. The three men turned their attention to me.

 _OK, Lisa. Focus on the case, hand over the information and you're done._

"Well, um… Norman and me– eh, I mean Agent Jayden and I have discussed the case, and –"

" _Norman_ , eh?" Blake cracked a mocking grin. "On first names already, I see?"

I could feel my cheeks burning but did my best to ignore the scorn. I went on to inform him of the orchid, tire tracks and shoe print. Blake did not seem to be an ounce impressed.

"So, the plan is to find and question everyone who owns a pair of size 11 boots with these prints, is around orchids and drives around in a 'somewhat' large car?" Blake threw out every word in a contemptuous, derisive tone. "For God's sake, even in this 'comfort' zone there must be hundreds, if not thousands of people who fit this description. Oh and good luck tracking them down."

Norman squinted at Blake. A look of disgust had manifested itself over his face. "It may not give us the name of the killer, but at least it's something to go on. If you got a better idea we're willing to listen."

Blake snorted, and crossed his arms. "You think you can do a better job than me because of your psychology degree and your fancy glasses? Well, let me tell you something, pal -"

"Um yes, he most definitely can," I cut in, interrupting the impudent jerk of an officer.

Blake looked at me like he wanted to kill me. Stumped by his temper, my eyes widened and I took a step backwards.

"Oh shut it, you lab rat. I've had it with you! With both of you!" He threw up his arms again in a _look what I have to deal with_ -gesture. Then he leaned over the table where the projector was placed, and bore his piercing, washed-out pale blue eyes on us.

"Your so-called _University degrees_ and fancy gadgets doesn't mean zip when it comes to getting out there. You bureaucrats and science geeks wouldn't last one day in the streets."

Content with his 'checkmate-like' speech, the lieutenant glared triumphantly at us in silence for a couple of seconds. Then he jerked back up with a smug grin as if he just got a brilliant idea.

"I tell you what, since you two seem to have gotten so chummy, why don't _you_ go and talk to the parents while me and Ash do some real police work and track down some _actual_ suspects."

Ash, who'd been leaning against the wall listening in silence, now stepped up to his puppet master. Norman scowled at Blake.

"Blake, I've had just about enough of your shit," he barked. "You've been chasing this killer for what, two years now? And what have you got? Nothing! Abso-fucking-lutely nothing."

"YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

Blake kicked over a chair and advanced as if he was about to deck Norman.

"Blake, you're being very unprofessional right now," I squeaked.

The lieutenant glared at me with fury and gritted his teeth.

"To your information princess, you don't find proof sitting at a desk," He sneered. "We don't have the habit of tramping things into the ground even if we're not the FBI or some hi-tech CSI geeks."

Yup, Blake was most definitely the grudge-holding type.

"Um, that's exactly what you _have_ done," I exclaimed. "How much proof do you have exactly, lieutenant Blake?"

The lieutenant jerked forward and was up in my face in an instant, while his obedient disciple Ash stood firm behind his idol as if he was his own personal bodyguard.

"Listen to me, you obnoxious little rat…"

Norman pushed him away before he could finish his sentence.

"Blake, you leave her alone!"

Both men were heavily invading each other's comfort zones, and for a moment I honestly thought they'd physically assault one another.

"Gentlemen, now is the time to resist our predisposition to impulsive behavior," I peeped.

"Get the hell out of here, both of you," Blake sneered while that idiot puppet of his stood erect next to him with arms crossed.

"Stay the fuck away from me, _Norman_."

To say we were both relieved to be out of that room and away from Blake, would be a huge understatement.

"That… could've gone better," I muttered, trying to relieve the tension.

The FBI-agent nodded, though it didn't seem like he'd expected it to go any differently.

"Um… I want to thank you for… eh, including me in the investigation. Eh, I mean, you know… for giving me some insight into the, um, whole profiler part thing… I found it to be most interesting."

 _Ok, Lisa. Just shut up already._

The guy responsible for the whole profiler part-thing cooked a grin, and his glittering, light green eyes locked on mine.

"Sure."

"And for bringing me along for the interrogations. I mean questioning- um, talking to the parents."

Jabbering away, I suddenly realized he hadn't exactly agreed to Blake's suggestion. Then again, he hadn't objected either. "Um, I'm really grateful for this opportunity to get an insight into the investigation," I finished with an awkward smile.

 _And for the opportunity to spend more time with you._

"Yeah, of course. No problem. I hate sounding like Blake, but I have some work that need to be done and I don't have time to talk to the parents today. Is tomorrow morning all right with you?"

"Actually, that's… perfect as I have some work to do as well, eh, a lot actually… of catching up."

 _Great!_ This conversation was shaping up to be a valid candidate for the _most-awkward-dialogue-exchange of the month_ award.

"So… tomorrow morning then?"

"Yeah. Just… um, knock on my door around nine?"

I wasn't quite sure if it was a question or a statement but jumped on the opportunity before he could change his mind.

"You bet! Looking forward to it! To learn more about the investigation, I mean. Eh, I better get down to the lab before they put out an APB or something. Nice working with you today, Norman."

"Same to you."

Seeing his face light up as a response to my clumsy attempt at a compliment made my own grin even bigger. I probably looked like an idiot auditioning for a toothpaste commercial, but I couldn't help it. He had such a lovely smile. I had to admit I found myself enjoying his company more and more.

I almost sprinted downstairs and threw my coat on a hanger in the wardrobe. I couldn't believe my luck. I was involved in the investigation! I dashed to the breakroom and made myself a cup of tea. Because of the time I'd spent with Norman over the past couple of days, I'd have to work late not only today but tomorrow as well, delaying my scheduled weekend trip back home several hours, but I didn't care. Before starting my internship, I'd crossed my fingers for the possibility of insight into the ongoing investigation of the Origami Murders, but despite my letter of recommendations, I'd had low hopes of it actually becoming a reality. And after meeting Blake I'd pretty much written it off. And then along came Norman. Sweet, kind and patient Norman. I felt so blessed that I'd been given the chance to work side by side with an intelligent, reflected and competent FBI-profiler, if only for a short amount of time. I'd already learned so much from him. And the fact that he'd said, ' _we_ need to talk to Blake' – as opposed to _'I_ need to talk to Blake' made me feel all warm and tingly inside.

"What are you grinning about?"

I jumped and spilled half my tea. Jane was two feet away and I hadn't even noticed!

"Jeez, stop scaring me like that, Jane." Her perfect face morphed into a feigned pout. I groaned. "You know how easily I get distracted," I said defensively.

"That's the understatement of the year," Jane chuckled, clearly amused by the situation. "But this time it's definitely not because of work, though."

She grabbed an apple from the fruit basket and took a large bite while rolling her eyes in a god-I-just-want-this-day-to-be-over manner. I felt a stab of guilt over my absence the last couple of days.

"If I'm gonna last till five I need a sugar boost," she mumbled between chewing, then she shifted her attention back to yours truly. "You look like you just won two million dollars. And where have you been all afternoon? Did you up meet up with that journalist from the Tribune?"

It took me a couple of seconds to realize whom she was talking about. I'd completely forgotten all about Madison.

"Oh, you mean Madison? Um, no. I went out for a snack with Norman and then we talked to Blake."

"Blake?" Jane cooked a brow. Despite gnawing on the apple, she never stopped talking.

" _You_ talked to Blake. Voluntarily? Fruit-in-hand, she pointed at me while saying the word ' _you'_.

"Um-hum."

"Together with the FBI guy?"

I gave her a puzzled look but replied affirmatively.

Jane stopped chewing and her brows curled into a slight frown. "I thought the whole point of talking to agent Jayden was to avoid Blake altogether."

"Well, yeah, but-"

Jane's face changed from bewildered frowning to amused smirking.

"Ahh, now I see…" Her lips curled upward and she got that playful glimpse in her eyes that she normally gets when she's telling me about an upcoming, hot date.

"What? It's not like I can avoid Blake for the rest of my time here," I interjected. "I did the adult, responsible thing and faced him."

Jane chuckled and munched down the last edible piece of what was left of the apple. Then she gave me a wink and headed in the direction of her desk while throwing the core in the bin.

"Sure thing, hun," she giggled over her shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

I never made it to the tiny, makeshift office. Shortly before nine, the FBI agent showed up at the lab, jacket on and a disposable paper cup with a plastic lid in hand. An unexpected, but pleasant surprise. Though _pleasant_ being a huge understatement as I had to strain myself from grinning like an idiot. I mumbled something along the lines of _I'll be right back_ and darted to the wardrobe to put on my outerwear. Teaming up with Norman was quickly turning into a pleasant habit. I refused to reflect on how the upcoming weekend and my trip back home meant that after today, I wouldn't see him again for another three days. When I returned Norman was busy talking to Jane. Or more specifically, my coworker was the one doing most of the talking while the FBI agent was doing most of the nodding. From the looks of it – and knowing Jane, it was most likely nothing more than an innocuous, casual chat or enquires regarding the investigation, or the ARI, or possibly both. And yet the sudden, intense irrational sting of insecurity and jealousy springing to life behind my sternum by the mere sight of them engaged in a conversation couldn't be tamed with logic or reason. Jane was always so classy, so sophisticated, so confident. And a more suited match for the formal and by-the-books agent for sure. I bolted forward and loudly interrupted their conversation.

"Ready to go," I chirped with a forced cheerful just-slightly-too-high-pitched tone, making my cheeks tingle for a second. Hoping they hadn't noticed, I strolled up to the FBI agent, restating my line in a somewhat more normal manner. Jane had indeed noticed. Cooking a brow, she winked at me and did her best to hide her smirk from Norman.

"I'll cover for ya, hun. Good luck, guys."

Turning on her heels, Norman didn't glance after her at all, but held his lovely green eyes on me. I offered a coy smile in return and looked away before I started to blush again. The profiler handed me the Styrofoam cup he'd been holding onto this entire time.

"I brought this for you," he added as if he just now realized it was still in his hand.

"Eh, that's really nice of you," I uttered. "What is it?"

"It's what you ordered yesterday. Hot chocolate with one third whole milk and a hint of cinnamon."

I was baffled that he remembered, and oh-so flattered by the gesture. I didn't have the heart to tell him that even though I love hot chocolate, before lunch I'm strictly a tea-person that find chocolate-flavored drinks nauseatingly sweet.

"Wow, thank you, that's… really nice of you."

For a short moment, a shadow of a smile washed over the agent's face. Having eaten a poor excuse for breakfast, I figured I could use the extra calories and took a swing at the lukewarm drink. The sweet, cinnamon taste felt slightly displeasing to my tongue, but not as appalling as I'd expected. On our way down to the garage I made sure to avoid that dreaded, awkward silence by chitchatting about work and my new life here in Philadelphia between sips, with the occasional comment or question from my companion. Upon exiting the elevator in the underground parking lot, the agent halted and grabbed me by the shoulder.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Norman's face held a concerned look as his eyes locked on mine.

"These people are mourning the loss of a child," he continued in a somber tone. "They're in grief, they're bitter… hostility towards law enforcement is not uncommon in these situations."

I held his gaze and nodded. His hand was still resting on my shoulder.

"I fully expect them to be uncooperative. They might even be downright hostile. You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

A strange blend of warm gratitude and cold disillusionment washed over me. I couldn't help but wonder whether this was merely an act out of genuine concern or an ingenious attempt at making me bail out because he regretted agreeing to bring me along. I tried to shrug of the latter option by telling my mind to stop over-analyzing myself into paranoia hell.

"I know," I asserted with what I hoped was a reassuring nod. Norman didn't look fully convinced, but nonetheless let go of my shoulder. The beep from the electronic car lock echoed through the garage, granting me access to his car. Dark of color and a run-of-the-mill design it was as anonymous and mundane as they come. I wondered if it was a private or a FBI-provided vehicle. We buckled up, and Norman switched on the GPS. A list of addresses showed up on the screen, transmitted from the ARI judging by the bottom right logo.

"The first on my list is Susan Bowles, the mother of the latest victim."

"Jeremy?"

"Yeah."

Born in 1999 in Pennsylvania, the family had moved to Philadelphia when Jeremy was five. The current address read _119 Kingsley Lane_. Located up northwest in the East Falls district, it was a good 20-minute drive away.

Even with the morning rush declining, there was still a fair amount of traffic. I took the opportunity to subtly check on the drug-addicted FBI profiler as he was busy driving. He looked paler than the day before, but not as pale as when I'd found him in withdrawal. A miniscule, almost imperceptible tremor on his left hand suggested he was trying to resist the urge to give in. _Good for him_. After a few minutes of driving Norman started telling me more about what to expect from the upcoming visits, questions he'd ask and what he hoped to learn from the parents.

The part about the Origami Killer picking his victims from poor districts was right on the mark. A multitude of cracks were running through the asphalt, and old newspapers littered the narrow street and sidewalks. The properties, separated by steel fences or tall brick walls with barbed wire running on top, held worn down, shabby-looking houses or trailer parks and small patches littered with all sorts of trash, like mini-junkyards. Old, worn-down tires, bicycles, canisters, cardboard boxes, used propane tanks, hubcaps, wooden planks and pallets. Kingsley Lane held no kings, that's for sure.

No. 119 was no exception. The structure was made up of a brick foundation, walls of metal plates with scaling blue paint and a roof that was likely leaking in several areas. As I stepped out of the car I tried looking inside but saw nothing but darkness. I couldn't help but to feel distraught by the thought of children growing up here. Gesturing for me to wait, Norman walked up the half-rotted, small staircase leading up to the front door. To assess the situation alone first, likely. Or maybe he feared the stair might break if we both thread on the steps. He rang the doorbell. A child's cry could be heard from inside, but there was no answer. He knocked on the door. Still no answer.

"Norman Jayden, FBI!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. The screaming intensified and switched to sobbing. After a minute or two, the door went slightly ajar and a woman's voice could be heard.

"What do you want?"

"Norman Jayden from the FBI, ma'am," he informed, flashing his badge. "I'd like to ask you some questions."

"I've already talked to the police twice, and a private investigator. I have nothing more to say. Please, leave us alone."

"It's important," Norman insisted.

The door opened and the FBI-agent disappeared inside. I hesitantly followed, as if waking slowly and quietly would be less intrusive. Norman introduced me as I entered the doorway. The woman stared back with dead eyes and gave a miniscule nod. Mrs. Bowles looked to be in her late thirties or early forties but was probably younger. A life of struggle making her look older than her actual age. Dressed in a dark, knee-length robe she was rocking a baby back and forth. The little one, about six months of age, was dressed in a pink jumpsuit with numerous tiny, yellow ducklings. Mrs. Bowles sat down on a worn leather couch and put the baby close to her chest. Norman took the chair next to the couch and I took a seat next to the FBI agent. The coffee table was littered with empty and half-filled beer bottles, unopened soda cans and assorted cookie boxes. The rest of the place was surprisingly tidy and clean considering the junk outside and the rest of the neighborhood. The only mess was on the living room coffee table and some baby toys strewn around in one of the corners.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bowles, but I'm going to have to ask you some questions about Jeremy."

The woman shrugged. Her gaze locked at a spot to her left, she spoke.

"At least you're polite, that's more than I can say about that asshat who came by the day Jeremy was found. He even had the nerve to return the day after. I told him to beat it."

I mentally cursed Blake.

"He won't be coming back," Norman assured in a calm, soothing voice.

Crouching into what I best could describe as a sitting fetal position, Mrs. Bowles closed her eyes and pulled the baby closer. The sleeves on her gown dropped and I noticed blood-stained bandages on both her wrists.

 _Shit!_

"What's her name?" I asked.

The grief-struck woman lifted her head, fringes covering her forehead.

"Emily. She'll be seven months in two days," she replied with a hint of a smile.

"You mentioned a detective…" Norman tried. Mrs. Bowles shifted position and her face morphed into a pained expression that I associated with being reminded of a memory rather forgotten.

"Scott… Shelby. He came by yesterday morning. Said he was hired by families of other victims. He saved me from… from doing something really stupid," Susan stuttered with a heavily brittled voice. She moved her arms slightly, drawing our attention to the blood-stained bandages.

"I didn't want to leave her…" she gasped, hugging her baby tight. "But not having Jeremy around… The thought of never holding him in my arms again… I-I just couldn't cope anymore."

Losing the fight against the tears, she hid her face behind Emily. The young one blabbered away in baby-tongue and her tiny hands played with her mother's auburn hair.

"He was an innocent, little boy! How could anyone do this to him?"

Her entire body was shaking. I felt a thickening lump in my own throat. From the corner of my eye, I could see Norman held up firm, but the sadness in his eyes gave him away.

"What about your husband?"

Susan drew in a series of short, sobbing breaths. "He disappeared… the day after Jeremy."

Emily was getting antsy and her legs started kicking.

"I'm sorry, I have to feed her." As the frail woman started rising, I beat her to it.

"I can do it," I offered. Both the mother and Norman looked at me with surprise, followed by an approving look in Susan's eyes.

"Bottle and heater are in the kitchen."

She gently placed Emily in my outstretched arms and pointed me the way. As I entered the kitchen corner, I saw the bottle straight away on the counter. Emily was getting more and more restless, so I wasted no time placing it in the heater and setting the timer. As the milk was warming up, I peeked out the curtain-less windows. The rainfall created a multitude of cobweb-like mini-streams running over the glass in every direction. I clung onto the small, warm bundle in my arms. _Please! No more killings. No more dead kids, no more grief-struck mothers._ Alone and desperate, locked in their own dark world brimming over with misery and pain mourning their lost child, they see no other way out than to end it all. I intuitively scanned the kitchen counter for any sharp objects. Concern for Susan and Emily won over the guilt of intruding, and I had the audacity to place two scissors and a knife out of sight. A soft ding told me the milk was ready. I squeezed a drop onto my wrist to make sure the temperature was around body-heat and put the silicone nipple to Emily's mouth. As I fed the baby, I listened to the muffled voices emerging from the living room as Norman talked to Susan.

"I don't know what happened to him… or why he left us..."

"And now I have to take care of my daughter all alone…"

Faint sobbing followed by gentle words of comfort too low to hear spoken by Norman in his soft, mellow voice. I cradled Emily as I fed her, burped her and carefully rocketed her back and forth as I hummed her a tune from my own childhood. The baby's eyes were getting heavy as she dozed off. I was taken aback by my own maternal instinct.

"I think she's about to fall asleep," I whispered as I entered the living room again. Susan rose, took Emily out of my arms and gently placed her in the baby carriage.

 _Thank you_ , she mouthed. I gave a nod and a faint smile in return.

"Did you notice anything off about your husband before he disappeared?" Norman continued in a low, muffled tone to not wake up the baby. "Anything he did or say that struck out as odd to you?"

Sinking down onto the couch again, Susan hugged her arms tightly around her torso and shook her head. Despite her best effort to hide it, I noted a faint tremble in her lower lip. Her hands started to shake. I feared she was reaching a breaking point. So did Norman. His brows morphed into a deep frown, and he scrutinized the poor woman with a troubled look.

"Did he leave behind anything, like a note or…?"

"No. He just left without a word."

"Do you have anyone that can help you out?" I asked.

Susan's head fell. "My mother. But I didn't want to ask her. We don't get along. Never have. But… I-I guess I'm out of options."

Satisfied with what he'd learned, or not wanting to push the grieving woman any further, Norman rose and signaled for me to follow.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Bowles."

"Take care," I whispered.

"I will. I promise."


	7. Chapter 7

Wondering if Susan Bowles' grief-struck face and bloody bandages would linger in my mind for the rest of my life, I sunk into the passenger seat and squeezed my eyes shut. Entering the drivers' seat, Norman glanced at me with a troubled look. Before he could say anything, like suggest taking me back to the precinct, I spoke.

"Do you think something happened to the husband?"

I didn't really think so, but it was the only thing I could think of that didn't directly involve Susan or her condition, Emily, or poor Jeremy. Indeed, it was a strange coincidence, but that was probably all that it was. A coincidence.

"It's possible," Norman mumbled while tapping the touchscreen, picking the next address from the ARI-generated list, 1964 Woodland Avenue. "At this point, we can't rule anything out. We have to leave all possibilities open."

"Yeah…" not much of an answer, really. I suspected the FBI agent didn't share with me all that was going on inside that reticent mind of his. Not that I had any right to a full disclosure, anyways. In a gust of self-conscious doubt and worry that he regretted dragging me along, I tried to keep up a half-sensible observation.

"A private investigator, what do you make of that?"

"In unsolved crimes, especially in cases involving children, it's not unusual for the next-of-kin to hire a private investigator."

"I guess not."

The parents of the seventh victim were unavailable for questioning. The mother had been admitted to a psychiatric ward ever since learning about her son's death, and we couldn't get a hold of the father. Next on the list were Allan and Lauren Winter, parents of victim number five, 13-year-old Johnny Winter. The body had been found in November last year. We rode in silence, arriving at their registered address eight minutes later. According to the landlady however, Mrs. Winter was to be found at a different address about three blocks south. Despite being well within walking distance, we drove thanks to the miserable weather. The directions took us to a run-down, two-star motel. The tattered lobby was dust-filled and impersonal. The receptionist, whom I could best describe as a generic, shady character straight out of an 80's mafia movie, had his nose deep in today's newspaper, reading up on the last details of the Origami Killer case. He didn't even glance at us.

"Room's ten bucks per hour. If you want towels, that's extra."

Oh, it was _that_ sort of place.

"We're here looking for Lauren Winter." Wasting no time, Norman went straight to the point.

"Never heard of her," the receptionist growled. "Now beat it!"

The FBI agent responded by flashing his badge, repeating the question. The man behind the counter looked like he wanted to tell us to get lost again, but ended up sinking down into his chair, reluctantly pointing us up a flight of stairs.

"Second floor, last door on the left."

Walking through the corridor, I tried my best to block out the muffled, but oh-so-suggestive sounds emerging from behind closed doors. I didn't dare look at or speak to Norman. Last door on the left, and thankfully no sounds could be heard as Norman knocked on the door. A woman in her mid-thirties appeared in the doorway, wearing a dress that some would refer to as soft red, others as rose. She too had that worn, _older than she really is_ \- look you get after years of struggle and misery. Lifeless, dark eyes scanned us from top to bottom.

"Lauren Winter?" Norman enquired, holding up his badge. The woman's apathic face turned to a mix of resentment and distrust.

"I've already told the police everything I know, and I have nothing more to add," she sneered. "Leave me alone."

She was about to close the door. Norman had to forcefully hold it open with his hand.

"Please, Mrs. Winter. I just need a few minutes of your time."

Chocolate-brown and pale green eyes faced off in a staring contest that lasted for the longest twenty seconds I've ever endured. Figuring she didn't have much of a choice, Mrs. Winter reluctantly closed the door to unhook the chain lock, allowing us to enter. Stepping over that threshold left me yet again with that dreadful feeling of imposing. Mrs. Winter lowered her face, letting her dark hair cover her features. The ivory skin was a stark contrast to the ebony-colored hair and bloodshot, cracked lips. Like an older and washed-out Snow White. Lighting a cigarette, she spoke in a monotone voice.

"You have ten minutes. I have an appointment at eleven and I need to get ready."

It was exactly 10.42 am. Again, Norman wasted no time beating around the bush. He introduced us and stated his reason for the unexpected visit.

"I'm really sorry, Mrs. Winter. I know this is difficult for you, but it's highly important that I learn everything I can in order to best understand the killer and his motives."

The woman lifted her head and turned to face us. Her mouth was stern and face emotionless, but her eyes glowed with rage.

"Difficult? You think you understand how this is _difficult_ for me, agent Jayden." She lowered her hand holding the lit cigarette and approached us. "Because you're a psychologist you think you know how I felt when the police informed me they'd found my son's body dumped on a godforsaken wasteland, like yesterday's garbage?" Fingers trembling, she took the cigarette to her mouth and inhaled deeply. The tobacco smell made me nauseous. Having stayed between the door and Norman, I stepped forward to approach the grieving mother. The FBI agent stopped me by gently and subtly placing his hand on mine. G _ive her time, she'll talk_. My skin was tingling where his fingers had brushed, and my heart was racing. _Great timing, dopamine_.

"I miss him so much." Tears sprung between Mrs. Winter's now red eyes. "He was such a sweet boy. Sometimes he would fight the kids who called me a… you know."

"So, he knew?" I blurted out, regretting it immediately. Lauren seemed unfazed.

"In his own way, he understood," she replied, staring at a fixed point in front of her. "Of course, I made sure he never ran into any of my… clients."

I awkwardly tucked a strain of hair behind my ear. We stood in silence, letting the woman speak on her own terms. I glanced at the watch mounted on the wall to my left, noting the seconds ticking by. Deep down, a part of me wanted her to remain silent long enough for the client to show up while we were still there, spot us and turn on his heels in the doorway. Silly, I know. It's not like it would've helped Lauren's situation, neither financially nor emotionally.

"It's not how I wanted to live, but we needed the money. I was trying to earn enough to get us out of here. To give my son a better life... but now, I just don't care anymore."

"What do you remember about the day Johnny disappeared?" Norman continued in his ever so gentle voice. I knew it was for the sake of keeping the meeting short. Still, the question seemed harshly direct, even for him.

"He used to go play with the neighborhood kids after school," Lauren told and for a brief moment, fond memories made her face soften, then sadness washed over her face and her jaw tensed. When she spoke again, her voice was tick with grief.

"I'll never forget that day. It was pouring down. Like it is now. All his friends returned home around five… except him."

The narration was static and hollow and came across as… almost rehearsed somehow. Like she's been telling and retelling these exact lines over and over.

"Did you suspect anyone?"

Lauren took one final drag from the cigarette and put the stump in an ashtray. The air was now thick with smoke and I could feel my eyes burning.

"I meet some shady men in my line of work. I thought of it at first, but... No, I don't believe any of my clients could have done that to my Johnny... or to all those other boys."

"What about Johnny's father?" Norman enquired.

"A good-for-nothing looser who used to beat me up when drunk," Lauren snapped. Her face hardened. "I haven't seen him since the day Johnny disappeared. Coward. I'm glad he left."

Forcing back my tears, I admitted to myself Norman had been right. I wasn't prepared for this. I reminded myself that no matter how painful for me, it was nothing compared to what these women had to endure. Her frail body drained of energy, Lauren slumped on a kitchen chair, and lowered her head again, letting her dark hair cover her face, masking shiny streams running down her cheeks. Her shoulders were shaking ever so subtly. I grabbed a sheet of paper towel from the kitchen counter, handed it to the crying woman and sat down next to her. She whispered a thank you and dried her bloodshot eyes. I had no idea how to reach out to her, but I had to try.

"Do you have anyone who can help you out or someone you can talk to?"

"No," she whimpered, choking down a sob. "I'm all alone."

"Have you been in contact with any of the other parents?" I suggested. "What about… eh, maybe like, a support group or something?" I knew I could be threading on dangerously thin ice here, but then again, we'd done that just by showing up and asking the kind of questions that forced the poor women to relive painful memories. Lauren remained quiet.

"I don't think there is one… I guess we've all been too caught up in our own grief."

She closed her eyes, huffed and blew her nose. The clock passing 10.50, we were almost out of time. I tried to come up with something to say, but nothing seemed right. We sat in silence, the ticking of the clock as seconds went by being the only sound. After a minute or so, Lauren broke the silence.

"I don't know if it's important, but around midnight three days ago a private investigator showed up here and started asking questions about Johnny, like you have been asking now. Claimed to be hired by the families of the Origami Killer. I dismissed him at first, but then he helped me out by beating up a violent ex-client so I figured, you know… maybe he was a nice guy."

It wasn't until now I noticed that Norman had been leaning against the wall a few steps behind, listening in on the conversation. He paced over to the kitchen table and sat down on the last empty chair.

"Do you recall his name?"

"Um, Shelby something..."

"Scott Shelby?"

"I think so, yes. Wait, he left me his card."

The woman rose and swiftly picked up a small piece of paper from a vanity table nearby, leaving behind a hint of cheap cologne. Norman studied the card while tracing his jawline and rubbing his chin with his index. Then he handed the paper back and rose.

"Thanks for your time, Mrs. Winter. If you remember anything else, give me a call."

Upon leaving the apartment, I felt yet again a surge of conflicted emotions. Massive relief to get out of this creepy place mixed with sadness and helplessness of leaving the poor woman behind, all alone with her grief and who knows how many shady _clients_. As a matter of fact, the whole morning had been a mesh of mentally draining, conflicting emotions. On our short way through the corridor and down the flight of stairs, we passed three or four 'johns', all sporting visible gold rings on their left hand. I wondered if Lauren's client was among them. I had no idea places like these were so busy this early during the day. Then again, I guess it makes sense for lunch time to be peak hours when it comes to married men visiting prostitutes. No need to make up excuses to the missus. Out on the pouring streets again, we went to grab lunch while discussing the case and what we'd learned so far. As I'd been busy feeding Emily, Norman had learned from Susan that Jeremy had disappeared while playing with friends nearby. Both victims had disappeared while playing outside with other children, but away from their parents. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious. In both cases, the fathers had disappeared shortly thereafter. Despite both men having a history of being prone to violence, as well as having drinking and/or gambling problems, it certainly was a strange coincidence. Or, maybe not. After lunch, we visited Hassan, the father of the first victim, 13-year-old Reza. Norman hoped that questioning the parents of the very first victim might help shed some light on the investigation, as a serial killer is more likely to make mistakes when committing their first kill, possibly even leaving behind incriminating evidence. Sadly, it was to no avail. Hassan politely, but abruptly dismissed us. He too, had recently been visited by a private investigator.

Heading back to the precinct, it was my turn to stare blankly into the air. The sorrow in the parents' eyes and their brittle voice as they spoke of the child they'd lost would haunt me for a long time. Had it been worth it? For the sake of insight into the investigation, no. But that wasn't really why I'd tagged along now was it? Norman side-eyed me with a concerned expression. What was I to say? That I enjoyed spending time with him so much that even having to witness parents grieving a lost child made it worth it? Had it been worth it?

It turned out that Scott Shelby was an ex-cop, assigned to the Philadelphia PD for eighteen years, five of them as Blake's partner and mentor. He'd retired a little over three years ago and had worked as a P.I. ever since. Norman registered his personal information in the ARI, as well as a low-priority memo to question him over the weekend. I reluctantly bid Norman an awkward goodbye and returned to the lab. Due to my two-day excursion with the FBI I had to work late to catch up, and I ended up taking the ten o'clock train for D.C. that night. About six hours later than initially planned. I put my head back on the seat and watched the lights flicker by, distorted by the shower outside, and let my mind wander through this week's occurrences. From Madison text Monday morning, up till sprinting through Lexington Station to catch the train just ten minutes ago. How I'd tried my hardest to avoid Blake, only to end up talking to him anyways. The evidence had already been logged, and Gabs had informed Perry. Moreover, no way they'd leave crucial evidence, or any evidence or information for that matter, in the hands of one person, an intern nonetheless. Perhaps Gabs just wanted to teach me a lesson. One that couldn't be learned from an academic source like a book or a lecture. The lesson being to never run away from confrontations or other uncomfortable situations. Or else, people like Blake would take advantage of me for the rest of my working years. I cooked a smile at my own conspiracies. Whatever the reason, I was grateful things had turned out the way they had as it had inadvertently thrown me together with Norman. Heck, for that I even owed Blake a thank you. Despite everything… yes it had been worth it.

As the lights from suburban Philadelphia disappeared behind me, I phoned Madison. Hoping she wouldn't let the opportunity of a possibly scoop go by, I asked if she could dig around regarding the victim's parents and the detective. Despite my vague and extremely obvious _I'm_ _not telling you everything I know_ phrasing, she reassured me she'd get back in touch asap. Hanging up, it didn't take long before my eyes were dropping. Physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted, I fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Current location: Gabs' office. Time: Monday afternoon, 1.53 pm October 3rd. Mission: writing my dissertation. Or, that's what I was supposed to be doing. It was surprisingly quiet, especially for a Monday. I suspected the lower-than-usual crime rate to be the result of _Origami Killer_ -induced increased public vigilance. Gabs had given me the afternoon off to work on my dissertation about identical twins and epigenetics. She even offered me her assistant's desk as neither of them would be needing the office space for the rest of the day. So far, I'd sorted my notes into a neat list, and altered the appearance of the bullet-points three times. And… that's about it. I removed the earplugs, closed the music library on my phone and opened my email to read Madison's response – again. Sent: Saturday, October 1st at 2.30 am. She was still struggling with insomnia, poor thing. I had yet to give her a proper reply. In a sleep-deprived and impulsive whim, I thought it'd be a great idea to play Nancy Drew amateur detective and I'd involved Madison, like a _George Fayne_ -sidekick. Now, I wasn't so sure. I skimmed through the short text, even though I knew it by heart. She was as reticent and vague in her response as I'd been in my phone call to her a few days ago. She did however, reveal that in all cases but two the fathers had disappeared shortly after the boys had been reported missing. Could we meet for a coffee to discuss this further, perhaps? Despite histories of domestic violence and/or alcoholism and/or gambling, I wondered why no alarm bells had gone off.

Jane had called yesterday to inform me that she'd been in touch with one of her former MIT-tutors, and that they might be able to enhance some of the 3D models, but in the next sentence advised me to not hold my breath. Nonetheless, it was great news. After spending two days weighing back and forth about whether to contact Norman or not, typing out and deleting over and over about 20 times, I finally had an excuse to get in touch:

 _Hi Norman. GJ the other day, it was a pleasure working w/you. Ms. Lavigna might be able to get a better read of the tire tracks. If she does, I'll be in touch. Take care, Lisa xoxo_

I'd been going for a well-balanced blend of formal and informal language, making sure to keep it short and casual. Had I been too informal? Too personal? Within less than a minute, I got a reply.

 _Sounds good. Keep me informed. N. Jayden._

I don't know why I felt so disappointed by the short, straight-to-the-point response. Or maybe deep down I did. I shrugged and put my phone down – _like I could expect anything different from him anyways_ \- and picked it back up again, for the twentieth time or so. Nope, pretending to not care still didn't help. I was tempted to send another text, but according to Charlene, the FBI agent would be busy all day interrogating suspects connected to the _comfort zone_ , tracked down by Blake and Ash last week. As detailed in the police reports, the prime suspect, Nathaniel Williams, a deranged, extremely religious man – scribbling bible verses all over his apartment type of deranged or, _suffering from a_ _mystical-obsessive neurosis_ _combined by a_ _persecution complex_ as Norman had written in the report, had found Blake and Ash in his home when returning from buying takeout last Thursday. Repeated threats and intimidations by Lt. Arrogant Jerk and his lap dog, resulted in the suspect pulling a gun on Blake rambling about Anti-Christ, leaving Ash 'no choice' but to neutralize him with a stun gun. The electric shock combined with an unknown cocktail of assorted drugs - prescribed and non-prescribed, caused a severe cardiac arrhythmia, rendering Williams unfit for questioning until today. As I read through the report, I couldn't help but to wonder what'd happened to the takeout.

Another suspect, Nicolai Korda had flung his coffee in Blake's face and fled the scene resulting in Ash chasing him through an open market in the Chinese district. He'd gotten away but thanks to an APB he'd been relocated yesterday evening. He too, was to be questioned by Norman and Blake today. The last suspect, Gordi Kramer, had been taken in Friday night while hosting a party, but he'd used his über-rich fathers' connections, and was out on the streets again in less than two hours.

Whirling the phone like a spinning top, I contemplated on whether or not to text Norman. But try as I may, I couldn't find the right words. Another hour ticked by with not getting much done save from staring into thin air. I gave up, shut down my laptop and headed out to the lab. Jane side-eyed me as I hasted past her, found my seat and switched on the microscope.

"Is everything all right? Weren't you supposed to work on your paper?"

"Yeah. Sure. I'm fine. Just peachy," I snapped. "I'll work on it later. I can't focus for shit right now!"

"Dude, your chill level is currently at -20%," Jane retorted, not taking her eyes off the monitor. "You're clearly not peachy."

Dude? Chill level? I cooked a brow and turned to face my colleague with a cheeky grin. "Oh, my. It appears my company has had a certain influence on your vocabulary, Ms. Lavigna."

Jane snorted and stretched her neck. "Unfortunately, I haven't had the privilege of enjoying your company lately." She turned to face me, crossed her legs and placed an elbow on the workbench. I felt a stab of guilt. "In fact, I barely saw you last week. I missed our after-work chats. Had a nice weekend back home?"

We agreed on warm drinks at OCF later. I had been neglecting a good friend. And it wasn't like I'd hear anything from Norman anyway.

"Oh, that's right." Jane jumped off her chair and brought her laptop over to my place. "I didn't want to disturb you earlier, but now that you're here…" Her fingers danced over the keyboard, and modified 3D-models of the tire tracks from last week's crime scene appeared on the screen.

"Remember the MIT professor I told you about? Well, she got back to me earlier. The tires are with a 90% certainty P185/75 R14," Jane announced excitedly. I gave her a blank stare in return. "It's the dimensions, my jaunty coworker clarified. "You know, the size. With, diameter. The actual pattern proved near impossible to remodel. My old mentor truly did some miracles here. Though impossible to get an accurate result, it might possibly be a tire of the type Tyron K239h."

My pulse quickened, and I could feel my cheeks blushing with excitement. "Jane, this is great news. Have you talked to Blake or any of the officers yet?"

"Pfft, Lt. Important is too busy all day with 'real' police work to talk to anyone."

I rolled my eyes. "No surprise there. I'll notify Norman asap."

Jane brushed me off. "Don't worry, I'll do it. _You_ focus on your paper."

I felt a stab of… disappointment? "No! … I'll do it, I want to, I mean... it's no trouble, I can…"

My friend leaned forward with a teasing glimpse in her eyes. "You like him, don't you?"

"What?"

"The FBI guy. You _like_ him. I can tell."

"What do you mean? No, I-"

"Oh no? You won't mind if I ask him out then?" she responded with a feigned innocent, casual tone.

"NO! Eh, I mean-"

"Aha!" Jane triumphantly exclaimed, index pointing straight at my chest.

"No, I-I don't know..."

"I have an idea!" my colleague and friend continued in her cheeky tone. "Why don't I date him a couple of times and give you feedback."

I rubbed my temples. "Jane, you're not helping."

The cheeky grin faded, and she took on a more serious look. "What's the matter, hun? Something wrong?"

I felt confused and insecure. Not that my emotional state was at all relevant considering there was a serial killer out there drowning innocent children. And now I felt guilty too. And selfish.

"I don't know, Jane. I'm not sure if… actually, I'm not sure of anything."

"No one ever is." Jane said in a somber tone, placing her hand on my arm. "But sometimes you just gotta go for it, you know. Better to have loved and lost and all that."

"Yeah, I guess. It's just that I don't do too well in situations where I can't rely on logic or reason," I confessed. "Never have."

"Oh God, Lisa." Now it was Jane's turn to cook a brow. "You're being such a socially inept academic cliché right now."

"Clichés exist for a reason, Jane," I pretend-lectured, pushing my glasses up my nose with an exaggerated hand movement. The comedic gesture made us both giggle, but underneath lame jokes lay valid concerns. Should I confide in her about Norman's drug usage? Would I betray his trust? I had promised to tell no one, but that was before… before –

"I have some concerns regarding the ARI," I admitted, effectively changing the subject.

"Yeah? Go on."

"As I understand it, the shades can simulate certain sensory stimulation, like a ball in your hand. And since you can, for a lack of a better word, sort of 'see' both the ball and the 'wall' you're throwing the ball at they're able to simulate visual input as well. Possibly auditory and olfactory ones too."

"Olfactory?" From Jane's frown, I gathered she was unsure of where I was going with this. "That means smell, right?"

"Yes, smell. What the ARI basically does, is creating a bunch of nerve impulses from stimuli that aren't really there," I continued. "But the brain still has to process and interpret these signals, right? Not to mention separating ARI-induced nerve impulses from the ones that stem from the real world."

"My bioengineering studies didn't really focus on neurophysiology. But that sounds right. Are you worried the ARI might fry the brain somehow?"

"I guess. To put it simple, your brain must 'learn' how to separate the virtual reality from the physical one." I paused, trying to find the words which best formulated my concern. "It might not be an issue at all. But what worries me, is that the ARI might have, at least with prolonged use over time, an adverse effect on the sensory input center of the CNS."

"It certainly can't be ruled out," my coworker acknowledged. "But this is beyond my field. What side-effects are you thinking of?"

"Well, frequent use could possibly cause disorders like epilepsy, hallucinations, sleep disorders, maybe even serious mental conditions, like schizophrenia. Both EEG and MRI scans before, under and after use would be necessary to determine the full effect of the ARI on the user's brain."

I took a pause to let my monologue sink in. A five second pause.

"In addition, I worry that stress hormones like adrenaline may amplify the side effects of the ARI. Not to mention the overall increased release of multiple neurotransmitters both during and after use."

Jane's lips curved into a pout. I could tell she was chewing on the inside of her chin, a habitual subconscious physical response of mental exercise. Jane's version of Norman's chin-rubbing. I wondered if I had any weird quirks whenever I was in deep thought.

"I'll check into it," she offered, giving the universal just-between-us gesture. "If the augmented reality produced by the ARI does have some nasty side-effects, I know just who to ask. But you owe me a latte."

I let out a puff of relief. "Thank you so much, Jane."

* * *

A few hours later, after warm drinks with Jane, I stepped off the bus far away from my apartment in University City, and out to a scruffy-looking industrial area up north. Following the directions on a map I'd printed before leaving work earlier, I was led into a narrow and desolated back alley with brick buildings to the right and a fenced-up empty field to the left. After a short walk, the latest crime scene of the Origami Killings stretched out in front of me. Norman was still interrogating suspects when I left the precinct. No one knew I was here, not even Jane. Against my better judgment I was still in amateur detective mode. After weeks on this case, analyzing sample after sample from victims and crime scenes and, in particular, after two days of collab with Norman I could feel myself getting sucked more and more in. I had to see the crime scene with my own eyes. I ducked under the police tape, walked up to where the asphalt ended and came to a halt in front of muddy, wet soil. My eyes scanned the area. There was a railroad track about twenty yards directly in front of me. Behind the tracks, a metal fence stretched out parallel to the rails, blocking access to a slope leading up to the busy highway above. Save for that giant hole under the highway bridge. About midways from where I was standing and the railroad track and a little to the left were markers which indicated where the body had been found. Above and to the right, the highway. Everything looked exactly like in the photographs. What had I been expecting, some kind of magic revelation? I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. I was here, might as well try and make sense of the myriad of thoughts chaotically swirling in my head. I didn't have a powerful tool like the ARI and would have to make due with analogous techniques and wit.

According to Norman, the killer had arrived by car on the highway above in the middle of the night, parked at the side, dragged Jeremy's body down the slope, through the broken fence, crossed the tracks and dumped the body where it was found a few hours later. I flipped the paper sheet with the map and, in an attempt to reconstruct the events leading up to the discovery of the Origami killer's eight victim a week ago, drew out the order of events. I retracted the killer's steps backwards; body – blood on the tracks – footprints - blood on the fence – more footprints – slope – highway. Using what I'd learned from last Tuesday's brief, crime scene reports and from working with Norman, I imagined the killer parking at the side of the busy highway above, pulling out Jeremy's body, dragging it down the steep, muddy slope, through the fence, crossing the railroad tracks and dumping the body where it was found. Then he had to make his way back up the steep, slippery slope and drive away. All of this as quickly as possible to avoid being detected by potential witnesses. While it was pouring down. Why go through all this trouble? Undoubtedly there had to be other, more accessible desolate areas for dumping bodies with lower risk of being spotted. Why this particular place? Why always next to a railroad track? Why always near a highway? Why always within the city center? Why always during heavy rainfall? Why take these risks as opposed to just drive outside of the city boundaries and dump the body at a more rural area? The dump sites were not random, but all carefully chosen. Like Norman said, everything about these killings had been meticulously planned, and the tiniest detail held significance. But what? What was the orchid and the canine-like origami figure about? A symbol of innocence and a symbol of loyalty, protection and companionship. When presenting the killer's profile, Norman had mentioned that the killer didn't have anything personal against the victims and would even go to the extent of covering their faces with mud to make them anonymous. I felt fairly certain this was a classic case of _cognitive dissonance_. The killer has conflicting emotions. He knows that he's doing wrong, so he makes the faces unrecognizable as well as giving gifts as a form of apology to feel better about his crimes. _To him, they're more like an image, a symbol…_ the question remained, what could these poor children possibly represent in the twisted mind of their murderer?

I'd seen enough. Putting on my chill playlist I started on my way home. It was a good two-hour walk, but for once it wasn't raining and I needed the fresh air. Today was the first without rain in over three weeks, but unfortunately the dark clouds above held promise of more rainfall to come. In accordance with the weather reports. I hoped they were wrong. More rain would equal more victims. I sent a text to Madison where I agreed to a meet-up later this week. I wasn't sure of what to tell her about the case. I just really needed someone to talk to. Someone from the 'outside' who could help me make sense of the myriad of thoughts churning nonstop in my head making it hard to fall asleep. And perhaps I could learn something from her as well. She replied almost immediately and we agreed to meet the next day. Putting the phone back in my pocket I stretched my head and let the cool air hit my skin, allowing my mind to churn its way through the murders, the young victims, the inconsolable mothers, Blake, Norman, my studies amidst all of this, Norman's addiction, the potential health risk of the ARI… _Norman._ Jane was right. I really did like him. Like, a lot.

An hour later I passed by a playground. Children were running about in full afterschool mode climbing, swinging, spinning and screaming. Watchful parents were sitting on benches or standing in groups nearby. Life seemed to be going as usual. For the young ones, anyways. Though the locals refused to be scared away from the normal, daily routine, at the same time there was no denying the effect the murders had on the community. Spotting a familiar face, I came to a halt. Wasn't that…? While weighing back and forth whether to make myself known, or to just move along, brown eyes met my own, and a pale hand greeted me. I entered the park and jogged up to a nearby bench, waving back at Lauren. She looked as pallid and tired as she had last Thursday, but this time there was something different in her eyes. As she rose, I noticed she was holding onto something.

"Lisa, right? Nice to see you again. What are you doing here?"

I hesitated, not sure how to explain my presence while avoiding telling her I'd just visited the latest dump site of the killer who'd taken her son's life just for the heck of it. Lauren leaned the pink bundle she was holding against her chest. The bundle moved and I spotted a baby's head. As the tiny, fluffy head turned in my direction, the little one let out joyful chuckles only babies know how to make and lit up a bright, toothless smile. She recognized me immediately.

"Is that… Emily?" I exclaimed, baffled.

The frail woman lit up a smile. "It is. I'm looking after her while Susan's at the ladies' room."

"Oh, you _do_ know each other." I stated, like a dumbass. Unsurprisingly, me and Norman's unscheduled visits had been a topic of conversation between the two women.

"We do now. After you guys left, I thought about what you'd said about a support group. Last Friday I started calling the other parents." Lauren moved Emily to an upright position, letting the baby lean against her shoulder. Tiny hands grabbed onto Lauren's coat and she put the fabric in her mouth. Marble-round baby blue eyes darted from face to face in search of her mother.

"Most didn't want to talk," she continued with sad eyes. "I don't blame them. The pain, it's like a bleeding wound. But Susan was… she started crying when I told her who I was and we ended up talking on the phone for hours. We met the next day and we've already become close friends."

Lauren was talking rather fast and I had to focus to keep track of her words. Eventually pausing to catch her breath, she cradled Emily, assuring that her mother would be back soon. The baby let out a soft whimper and Lauren started rocking her from side to side. Thumb in mouth, the little one dozed off. They both looked so calm and peaceful.

"Hi Emily," I said softly while stroking the girl's hand.

"We're going to meet regularly and go for walks with Emily together," she confided with an excited whisper. "We're helping each other to move on I guess. And I want to help Susan out with Emily. Taking care of a baby all alone… it's hard. And it's something for me to look forward to."

"That's really great. I'm glad you two find comfort in each other," I smiled. At that moment, Emily's mother returned.

"Hey, you two. I'm back. Thanks for looking after Emily for me," Susan said to her companion with a soft smile. Then she shifted her attention to me. Immediate recognition followed by a second to place my face. Her smile vanished.

"Oh, it's… you."

I made an awkward waving gesture, then my hand went on to fiddle with my hair. That odd sensation of imposing returned. As Emily returned to her mother, Lauren quickly recapped our chance meeting as well as reminding her that it was thanks to my words that they'd gotten in touch in the first place. Susan's face softened.

"I'm sorry. You were nice to me. And Emily. I didn't mean to come across so… hostile. You stirred up a painful memory, that's all."

"No need to apologize. I totally understand," I awkwardly mumbled.

"Thank you for bringing us together," Lauren shot in.

"Yes, thank you."

"I didn't really do anything," I retorted, tucking another invisible lock behind my ear. "I won't be bothering you guys. I-I have to get going any ways. Take care."

"I remember something," Susan blurted to my back. I spun around on my heels. Heart pounding, I did my best to keep cool.

"Yes…"

The woman with the blue eyes and shoulder-length auburn hair hesitated while side-eyeing her new friend. Lauren gave a supportive nod. "I don't know if it means anything, but a couple of days after Jeremy… disappeared I found a cellphone in a dresser that I've never seen before."

"A cellphone?" My pulse dropped. Not as exciting as I'd hoped. And definitely not better-call-Norman-this-instant important. Most likely nothing at all.

"Yeah. It didn't work, though. I tried to switch it on, but nothing happened. I told that detective about it. He must've taken it with him as it's gone now."

Lauren placed a hand on Susan's back. "We'll call you if we think of anything else."

At home, I was yet again debating on whether or not to contact Norman and tell him what I've learned. Not that I'd learned anything super important. Not important enough for an evening call. Moreover, I worried he'd disapprove of my whim to play detective and worse, involving a journalist. It felt strange going to bed without the sound of rain outside. I slept poorly that night.


	9. Chapter 9

_"_ _Faster, dad, faster!" With both hands firmly gripping the handle, Ethan Mars ran as fast as he could. The joy on Shaun's face reinvigorated him, and he kept pushing the merry-go-round, making the world spin for them both. Shaun's cheery laugh was like music to his ears. For the first time since the accident, Ethan finally felt something other than numbness, disdain and self-loath. His therapist had called Jason's death an accident, and kept telling him that he couldn't blame himself for his oldest son's death. Easier said than done. It was an accident, his therapist had said. When Jason died, it was as if he'd died with him. Depression, sadness and anxiety took over and had for the last two years threatened to swallow him whole. He knew he hadn't been there for Shaun, and the guilt was overbearing. Shaun, his little boy, the only reason why he got out of bed every morning to endure yet another day of miserable, hellish grief, guilt and self-contempt._

 _Fearing he might lose his footing, he let go of the merry-go-round and jogged beside his son until the apparatus came to a halt, leaving Shaun stumbling around on the grass, waving his arms to keep his balance._

 _"_ _My head's spinning."_

 _Ethan grabbed him by the shoulders, and steadied his head._

 _"_ _Good training for astronauts, though."_

 _Shaun regained control of his frail body and hugged his father around the waist. It's working! I got to find something else to do with him, he thought to himself. Remembering the toy boomerang in Shaun's schoolbag, he leaned over and fished the Australian invention out of the rucksack._

 _"_ _Do you know how to use one of these?"_

 _"_ _No," Shaun admitted. I tried, but I can never get it to come back."_

 _"_ _Do you mind if I try?"_

 _The boy shrugged. Ethan moved away from where the children was playing, and positioned his legs at a slight distance from each other. Gripping the wooden handle, he threw the boomerang as hard as he could. The toy flew forward and around a bush. As Ethan waited for it to return, he spotted a rainbow in the distance. A sign? A promise of better days to come? As the boomerang returned, he caught it successfully, earning applause from his son. The ten-year-old boy with the sad, brown eyes lit up a smile and in that moment, Ethan saw a short glimpse of the old Shaun. The Shaun that used to love going to the park, to play, laugh and mess around. And in that moment, while teaching his youngest and now only son how to throw a boomerang, it was almost as if he could forget the sadness for a while and everything felt like before. When Jason was still alive. Finally, if even for a brief moment, Ethan could be the father Shaun deserved._

 _The sky was getting darker and the wind was picking up. Ethan reckoned it would start raining again within the hour. More and more people arrived at the park to squeeze in a little play time before the next shower set in. The playground started to get crowed, making Ethan feel uncomfortable. Ever since the… incident, he'd not been handling crowds very well. It was time to leave._

 _"_ _Dad, can I have a ride at the carousel? Can I? Please."_

 _It was the first time since his brother's death that Shaun had asked for anything._

 _"_ _Sure. Pick a horse and get on. I'll get a ticket."_

 _A throbbing headache was ever so slowly starting to manifest behind his eyes, and built up quickly. The accident that had claimed Jason's life had severely injured Ethan as well, giving him a massive concussion. While he had no long-term physical damage from the accident, still to this day, over two years later, Ethan suffered from physiological aftershock, like headaches and memory loss. The park getting more and more crowded didn't help either. Feeling the anxiety building up, Ethan stumbled towards the nearest bench. Then everything went black…_

 _A deafening sound made him come to his senses just in time to realize he'd wandered out on the road. Startled, he skipped to the side to avoid getting hit by a large truck and proceeded to check his watch. No, he refused to believe it. He couldn't have… he'd only shut his eyes for a second! But the time on his watch was a cruel reminder that he'd been aimlessly wandering the streets for over an hour and was… he looked around frantically for landmarks… over four blocks from the park! What was he thinking, leaving Shaun like that? What kind of parent leaves their child unattended at a public, crowded area? Wasting no time, Ethan bolted back to the playground. It was pouring down like never before, and the streets were practically empty. And so was the park. Shaun was nowhere to be seen. A million thoughts flew through his mind. 'He's not here! Where's Shaun, I got to find him.' He rushed over to the now immobile carousel, and spotted a familiar item in the distance. Shaun's bag! Ethan screamed his son's name at the top of his lungs, but received no response. The house! He must've gotten back to the house. Ten minutes later, Ethan flung open the door to his run-down apartment. He raced through every room as well as the backyard while relentlessly screaming Shaun's name. But to no avail. Refusing to come to terms with his son missing he ran through the apartment again. This wasn't happening. There was no way. Not after Jason… tripping over the kitchen table, Ethan stumbled and grabbed a hold of the edges. A week-old newspaper lying on the table caught his eye. The headline read, The Origami Killer Strikes Again. No, no there was no way. Impossible. Storming out onto the street, he yelled Shaun's name over and over until he collapsed in the relentless rain sobbing uncontrollably. Not Shaun. Not his little boy._


	10. Chapter 10

I happened to be hanging by the water cooler when Ethan Mars burst into the precinct's main hall to report his son missing. Killing time before my 7 o'clock rendezvous with Madison, I was casually chitchatting with Charlene when this shabby-looking guy came barging in around 6.30 soaking wet, crying about his son gone missing, insisting on talking to an officer. Not diverging his attention from the monitor, Blake made a gesture to his protégé, who reluctantly rose from his seat and leisurely strolled up to meet the distressed man. I yawned and rubbed my eyes carefully to not smear my makeup. One night of tossing and turning, and I could easily feel the effects of sleep-deprivation. How on earth did Madison cope? Leaning against Charlene's desk, I sipped on water as I watched Ash guiding the shivering, angsty-looking fellow to where he and Blake were sitting. Gesturing to an empty chair, he encouraged the man to take a seat.

To be perfectly honest, I didn't just _happen_ to be hanging out between Blake's desk and Perry's office. Though I did my best to pretend otherwise, I was hoping to 'casually' run into Norman, giving me an excuse to strike up a conversation. Lt. Jerk had deprived me of that earlier today when he ripped Jane's report on the tire tracks out of my hands as I'd been on my way to hand them over to the FBI agent.

Mars appeared to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a well-worn brown leather jacket, a hooded black jumper and faded blue jeans. The bottom half of his face was covered in this unkempt half-beard that men get when they don't bother to shave or trim their facial hair. Blake sat down on top of his desk, and Ash initiated the query. The men were close enough for me to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"This is Lieutenant Blake, Mr. Mars," Ash informed while gesturing to his colleague. "Could you please tell him what happened."

"This afternoon, after school… I took my son, Shaun, to the park," he recounted, turning his attention to Blake. As he continued speaking, he appeared remarkably calm, collected and composed.

"We played together for a while… after about twenty minutes or so, he wanted to go on the carousel so I put him up on one of the wooden horses and when I turned back... Shaun had disappeared."

My pulse picked up, but I did my best to appear unfazed. Blake had that _hardened cop_ -look that he'd spent years mastering to perfection. Ash sported his usual dull expression. He was dressed in the same grey shirt he'd been wearing every day the week before. Or maybe he just happened to own a dozen copies of the exact same shirt.

"Exactly what time did you arrive at the park?" The middle-aged lieutenant inquired with a dull tone. "Try to remember _exactly_ , Mr. Mars. Every detail can be important," he pretend-urged as he made absolutely no attempt at making notes.

"It must've been about…," the father hesitated as he put his memory to work. "Four, I think. Yes, four-fifteen. I remember exactly because I looked at the clock in the park when we arrived," He assured with conviction, maintaining eye contact with the lieutenant.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Norman circling up behind Blake as the lieutenant asked Mr. Mars to describe his missing son's clothes - a beige raincoat, green pants and sneakers. I swirled the near empty cup and made a conscious decision to not look directly at the federal agent as he came to a halt at the other side of Blake's and Ash's desks, directly facing Mr. Mars. Fumbling with his hands close to his face, he idly listened in on the conversation. My pulse quickened even more, and I had to put all my effort into remaining cool. Blake, who had yet to note down the details provided by Mr. Mars, leaned forward, his mouth springing open as if he'd just had a sudden revelation.

"How could Shaun have disappeared without you noticing? Weren't you right by the carousel?"

Mr. Mars shifted in his chair, visibly uncomfortable by the question. Though he was quick to regain composure. As he replied, he avoided eye contact with both officers. "I-I waved at Shaun. Then I went for a short walk around the park. I sat down on a bench nearby while waiting for the carousel to stop. But when it did, Shaun was nowhere to be seen!"

Norman continued to listen to the conversation, ceaselessly folding and unfolding his fingers, tracing his jawline or rubbing his chin. He was vigilantly observing not only Mr. Mars, but the officers conducting the questioning as well.

"You said you took your son to the park after school, around 4.15," Ash broke in. "After twenty minutes, you noticed Shaun had disappeared. But you didn't report him missing until now, two hours later. Why did it take you so long to contact the police?" he confronted, side-eyeing the FBI profiler with a smug satisfaction.

Mr. Mars twisted his hands, and suddenly it looked like he wanted to flee the scene. "I-I panicked! I looked for him everywhere," he exclaimed. His Adam's apple shot up and dropped as he swallowed hard. I noticed his hands started to tremble.

"First, I searched the park and nearby streets, then I ran home and looked for him there. When I couldn't find him, I thought that maybe he'd gone off with some friends from school and that he'd come home soon. I don't know what I was thinking… Shaun would've never gone just off like that… he wouldn't."

"Did you notice anything in particular at the park?" Norman joined in questioning for the first time. The sound of his calm, soft-spoken voice made me fluster and the renowned tummy-butterflies announced their presence. I emptied the tumbler.

"Anyone that acted in an unusual manner or stood out from the crowd? Did anyone speak to you or your son?"

"No, not that I can recall."

"Does Shaun have any particular difficulties, Mr. Mars?" he continued, as he started pacing the narrow space between the officer's desks. "Anything that might've caused him to run away?"

Mr. Mars continued to rub his hands nervously. "No… no, I don't think so."

"Everything ok at school? Any particular problems between you and your wife?" Norman frowned, and leaned over Ash's desk, making the officer back away with a dissatisfied expression.

Mr. Mars hesitated, his eyes drifting. "My wife and I have been separated for the last six months. Our relationship has been a little difficult recently, but… no, he'd never run off without telling his mother or me!" he replied, while looking at Ash.

"That's all the questions I have for now." Blake broke in, rising from his desk. "You're free to go, Mr. Mars. We'll continue to look for Shaun overnight. We'll contact you if we have any more questions."

Mars shot up from his chair and anxiously stared after the lieutenant. As on cue, Ash rose as well, while keeping an attentive eye on the distraught father. Norman straightened, observing the situation unfold.

"Do you think… the Origami Killer…" the father stammered.

The lieutenant shrugged. "Your son's probably just run off and will turn up in a couple of hours," he replied to an unconvinced Mars.

"But what if it _is_ the Origami Killer…?"

"Then we have about four days to find him alive," Blake responded in a dull voice.

Blake and the father wandered off in separate directions. The lieutenant entered captain Perry's office, Ash went to the men's room, and Norman resumed leaning over the desk. I didn't want to intrude, so I left him to his thoughts. As I re-filled the plastic cup, Mr. Mars walked up to a red-haired woman dressed in a dark blue raincoat waiting on a chair on the other side of the hall. Shaun's mother, I assumed. Even from across the lobby I could tell she'd been crying. Biting down on the now half-filled plastic cup, I observed them talking. I couldn't hear the words, but the woman was getting more and more upset, pacing the floor and covering her face with her hands.

"What happened, Ethan? How could you lose Shaun like that?" She screamed out, loud enough for the entire foyer to hear.

"You should never have taken your eyes off him. For God's sake, how hard is it to keep an eye on a child in a park?"

Mars did not respond, but he looked absolutely gutted.

"Why did you leave him, Ethan?" the woman shrieked. "Wasn't it enough loosing Jason?!"

She started crying, and I could ever so faintly hear _I'm sorry_ … between the sobbing. Mars reached out to her, as he wanted to embrace her. She turned away, making him change his mind, or lose his courage, and instead he let his arms fall to his sides. The woman had now completely broken down in tears. Poor people. I wish there was something I could do to ease their pain. The implications that the Origami Killer had kidnapped yet another child…. I knew it was too early to say, and I knew better than to jump to conclusions, but I couldn't help the chilling realization that…

"We may have another child abducted by the Origami Killer."

Norman's voice, soft and gentle as always, still startled me, which made me unintentionally squeeze the half-filled tumbler, expelling cold liquid on my blouse. He apologized and handed me a paper towel he got from Charlene. Despite the grim circumstances, the FBI agent's mere presence sent tingles through my body. Except from a couple of texts, I hadn't spoken to him since Thursday afternoon and I'd gotten worried he was avoiding me. He appeared as calm and composed as ever, but I noticed redness in his eyes and traces of half-dried waterdrops on his collar, suggesting he'd recently splashed his face with water.

"Yeah… So... eh, what about the interrogations yesterday?"

"Nothing. We ended up questioning 9 different people. Neither fit the profile, and all had an alibi for one or more of the murders. The only reason they matched my profile in the first place is because of poor protocols."

"Oh. That's… too bad. But what about the Origamis or orchids? Anything new?"

"No. Paper's too common, it's no use as a lead. Visiting flower shops didn't lead to anything. No further information from the parents… the investigation is currently at a stalemate."

As he was talking, he stroked the back of his head. I noted a small tremor on his hand. I scrambled my head for words of encouragement. Or, anything to say at all. Had he noticed me eavesdropping? If so, had it bothered him? Maybe stop making everything all about me?

"What now?" I queried.

"The most logical way to proceed is to visit the place where Shaun Mars disappeared."

That made sense. Although…

"Do you think there'll be anything there, though? With the rainfall and the fact that this killer never leaves behind anything that can be traced back to him, I doubt we'll find anything of interest."

 _Okay, Debbie Downer._

"This is the first time a scene of abduction can be investigated with ARI the same day as it occurred. In addition, we must register the location of every CCTV. If we're lucky, the killer's car is on camera."

Video surveillance. ARI. Good points. _We._ Noted. He'd said _we_. Probably we as in _we,_ investigators and forensics… or _we,_ as himself and the Philadelphia PD. Not _we_ as in me and Norman.

Perry and Blake exited the captain's office and gestured for Norman… and me!? Blake waved at Ash, and shortly thereafter, Gabs and Jane joined us. The seven of us gathered outside Perry's door.

"Good, you're all here." The captain started. "As you probably know, a ten-year-old boy has gone missing while playing at a park in the Northern Liberties district this afternoon. While it's too early to conclude, it's quite possible this is the work of the Origami Killer. If that's the case, we have no time to lose. Every minute counts if we're gonna find Shaun Mars alive."

The captain grunted and fumbled with his tie-knot. "I don't have to remind you of the press conference tonight at eight. It's in a little over an hour," he stressed. I couldn't help but wonder what drove the captain more. A desire to 'strike while the iron is hot' or hoping to land a bone he could throw to the press.

"As to not risk destroying potential evidence, we've decided to send as few people as possible," Gabs continued. Blake sneered. Perry fumbled with his tie. Norman seemed pleased.

"Jane and Lisa, you two go to the park. Cover every inch, turn every stone. Ira will stay here and run hair and shoe prints, sequence DNA, and analyze samples from the scene."

"Blake and Ash, you go and knock on doors," Perry instructed. "Talk to the locals. Find out if anyone saw or heard anything." He turned to Norman. "Jayden, I assume you'll go with them?"

The FBI agent nodded.

"Gather what you need and get going!" the captain barked. "There's no time to lose."

Jane offered me a lift as we hasted downstairs to get our equipment. I sent a text to Madison cancelling our plans as 'something had come up at work'. I let her draw her own conclusions. At that moment, the effects of hanging by the water cooler for over an hour sat in.

"Jane, can you get my stuff too? I _have_ to pee."

* * *

Within minutes, five people and three cars were on their way to the area where Shaun Mars had disappeared a few hours earlier. Me together with Jane and Ash went with Blake. Norman drove alone. At our destination, we split into three teams. Blake and Ash would be talking to the locals, which meant knocking on doors and questioning pedestrians. I doubted there would be much of the latter. Jane was quick in offering to patrol the fence and sidewalks, and note down every CCTV, leaving me and Norman to search inside the park. As there was no body and the area would be desolated until the next day because of the time and the miserable weather, a cordon was not necessary. Spreading out, we got to work. The downpour made us instantly soaking wet despite wearing raincoats. We were quick to locate Shaun's black schoolbag next to the carousel, and I put a tag next to it to mark the find. Then we started searching the muddy ground for footprints and other clues. Norman retrieved the ARI and the accompanying _Smart_ Glove. I realized this was my first time witnessing the FBI agent using the wondrous glasses. As he activated the hi-tech shades, a blue light emerged from under the lenses, and buttons along the temples cast off an intense, cerulean glow. A minuscule wave of his gloved hand prompted a 360-degree scan of the immediate area. Occasionally he'd crouch down and touch the ground with his gloved hand, which caused built-in diodes to be lit up in the same blue light, as he recorded comments to log potential evidence. I supplemented with photography. In spite of the circumstances, it felt good working side-by-side with Norman again. It was, however, not the time nor place for casual chit-chat or subtle flirting.

"Those fancy shades of yours will probably make this redundant in the future," I insinuated, hinting at my camera.

"It'll probably be less common, but not redundant. Analogous documentation will always be a crucial back-up in case the digital technology fails," the agent assured. "The same goes for crime scene investigators," he continued, as if reading my mind. "ARI is of great aid, but it's merely a tool and cannot replace human wits."

The tool of great aid located numerous prints resembling Ethan's shoes at the merry-go-round, adjacent to a seesaw and around one of the swings, as well as at a patch behind one of the benches. Other than that, it was one dead-end after another.

"Goddamn rain. It's impossible to find any good prints," the FBI agent repeatedly grunted.

I recalled my apprehension regarding use, or more precisely, over-use of the ARI. This was however, not the time nor the place to bring that up. On the other hand, the FBI wouldn't give their agents potential harmful tools, would they? Even if it was an experimental prototype. Surely, they were harmless. Focusing elsewhere, I observed my surroundings. The vicinity wasn't as scruffy as Susan's neighborhood, but could certainly be described as one of the 'poorer parts' of the city, the Origami Killer's preference, well inside his comfort zone. It was a small park, surrounded by private houses, apartment buildings and containers. The usual activities were spread around the playground. Swings, seesaws, wavy slides, a merry-go-round and an elaborate jungle gym with monkey bars. I noted several benches and over-filled garbage bins. The carousel was placed in the northwest corner near one of the entrances.

Leaves were constantly falling, a reminder of the season. Roads were travelling along the south and east side. There were two entrances, one on the north side and one to the east. A concrete wall made up the west end, with the park rules and a huge clock mounted on it. Behind the wall was a red-brick apartment building. The rest of the area was fenced off with shrubs and small trees growing near the enclosures, most likely to offer the visitors some shield from the traffic of cars and people outside. In the southeast corner, the Ben Franklin bridge could be spotted in the distance. Despite its light blue color, it reminded me of the Golden Gate bridge with nearly the same shape, age and length. Oh, how I missed the West Coast.

We searched every inch of the park in hopes of coming across footprints similar to the ones detected at the crime scene last week, but to no avail. Most patterns were undistinguishable because of the rainfall. We returned to the lone backpack and crouched down as Norman activated the ARI's scanning device to search for prints or other clues.

"Make sure to scan every patch carefully," I urged. "Fingerprints are made of fatty oils produced by our skin, which makes them naturally water-repellent. Which means that despite the weather, there's a good chance of finding prints."

 _Which… he already knows, Lisa._

A meticulous scan of the backpack revealed two sets of prints. Most likely the ones of Shaun and Ethan Mars. After two hours of scrutinizing, we decided to call it the night. I started packing our bags while Jane decided to circle the park one last time. I put the bags over my shoulder and headed towards the northern entrance. The carousel, the bench nearby where Ethan had allegedly sat down, the nearest entrance, the open area… something, just didn't feel right.

"Norman, do you think Ethan Mars was telling the truth when asked about why he didn't notice Shaun disappearing? About talking a walk and sitting down on a bench? I mean…"

As I exited the park, factory lights glimmering in the dark, rain-filled night greeted me. Behind them, tall buildings stood erect against the dark, starless sky. I tried to put the irking realization growing at the back of my mind into words. All while deciding if it was worth following. The last thing I wanted was to be a distraction, or even worse steer the investigation in the wrong direction. Then again, it was Norman who'd said we had to keep all possibilities open.

"It's probably nothing, and the last thing I want is to sound like an accusing douche a.k.a. Blake." My eyes quickly darted up and down the road outside to make sure the accusing douche I'd just outed was nowhere nearby.

"But I couldn't help but note that there's only a few short steps from the carousel to the nearest bench and there's nothing to obscure the view. How could someone abduct Shaun without the father noticing? Besides, don't you think he was acting a little weird when asked about it?"

Just saying it out loud made me feel like an ass. But as much as I hated to admit it, Ash was right. It seemed strange indeed. Norman offered no response. Come to think of it, he hadn't spoken at all in a while. That wasn't unusual considering his frequent in-deep-thought quietness and overall reserved demeanor. Yet, he always responded to direct enquiries.

Turning my head, my eyes widened as I saw the FBI agent leaning heavily on the fence circling the park, gripping his chest.


	11. Chapter 11

Rushing to his side, I grabbed him by the shoulder whilst shouting his name. The glossy, distant look in his eyes was back, and he was struggling to stay on his feet. As an attempt to achieve eye contact, I locked my hand around his jaw. Even in dim street lights distorted by endless rainfall, his skin was as ghostly grey as when I'd found him curled up in his makeshift office. The area between his nose and upper lip was smeared in crimson red.

"Norman, are you okay?"

"I need some… just a little bit."

I wasn't sure if it was directed at me, or if he was mumbling to himself. With shaking hands, he attempted to unscrew the lid of a small vial.

"What the fuck, Norman?"

"I-I gotta have it. Just this once. I-I… need it, I'll feel better."

"No, don't. You can beat this," I urged.

"I'm gonna faint if I don't."

As on cue, he collapsed on the ground in front of me. His eyelids were half open in spite of being more or less unconscious, and blood was still seeping from his nose. The vial fell out of his hand. I picked it up and studied the content. It was a fine-grained, crystalline blue powder, unlike any drug I'd ever seen before. At that moment, I heard Jane's voice behind me.

"Lisa, what's going on?"

I swiftly put the vial in my pocket. "Jane, I need your help!"

* * *

"Where am I? What happened?"

The FBI agent shot upright after nearly two hours of unconsciousness. I was sitting by my desk in my PJ and an over-sized cardigan, pretending to be working on my dissertation when in reality, I'd been checking on him every other minute.

"You shouldn't jolt up like that. It could lead to a sudden drop in blood pressure," I exhorted, side-eyeing him. "Especially considering your _incident_ earlier tonight."

Tossing aside the blanket I'd tucked around him, Norman studied the unfamiliar surroundings. I took a zip of my lukewarm tea as his eyes wandered my 200 ft² apartment, eventually finding their way back to me. He repeated his initial question.

"Where am I? Is this your place?"

"No, I decided to break into a random apartment, and I borrowed their nightwear while I was at it."

He shot me a glare but didn't retort my sardonic comment.

"Yes, it's my place," I confirmed, shifting my attention from the monitor to my bemused companion. "Jane drove us. You've been napping on my couch for nearly two hours."

"What did you tell her? Does she know…?"

I shut down the laptop and swirled my office chair to face him. "No, she does not. I told her you had an epileptic fit."

He conveyed a blend of relief and embarrassment. I leaned forward, put my elbows on my knees and folded my hands. "I don't like lying to my friends, Norman."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he turned his head to the side. "No, of course not. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble. I'm sorry, I-I'mma get going right away."

He grabbed his jacket lying over the couch's arm. We rose simultaneously, and I put up my hands as to stop him in his tracks.

"Why don't you spend the night here. To sleep, I mean. On my couch. It's late, we're in University City, and your car is all the way up in Northern Liberties. It's gonna take you a while to get back to your hotel."

The unexpected offer stumped the FBI agent. Weighing the clothing in his hand, he hesitated to put it on. "Thanks, but I-I really shouldn't… You've already done more than you need, and… I don't want to be of any more trouble."

"It's no trouble, honestly," I assured. "You'll get more rest if you just go to sleep right now. Tomorrow you can take a cab from here and retrieve your car."

Knowing he'd respond well to logic and reason, I hoped my judicious arguments would outweigh the understandable, but mistaken sense of intruding and shame. There was a moment of hesitation as he weighed his options, then he dropped the arm holding the jacket to his side.

"Um, I guess you're right, I-"

"Great! Bathroom's over there," I informed, pointing at the door next to the entrance before he changed his mind.

"Okay. So… eh, I'll leave you to it, then," I mumbled, fumbling with my sleeves.

We exchanged good nights followed by me closing the curtains shielding my bedroom from the rest of the miniscule apartment. I chucked the cardigan on my comfy chair and crawled into bed. Despite being exhausted, my body refused to sleep, and I ended up tossing and turning for the second night in a row. Norman fell asleep within minutes. Entangled in my bedsheets, I listened to the distant, near impeccable sound of his breath, wondering if I'd gone too easy on him. I should've been more confrontational, but I feared it might alienate him. Confrontations were not my strong suit. I was working on it, but… baby steps. Besides, I shouldn't get involved with someone struggling with a drug addiction. Bad idea. Horrible idea. Asking for trouble, really. So, I'd just up and leave him to his own, possibly grim fate? While simultaneously ignoring my growing feelings towards the kind and sweet, but introverted FBI agent? Boring my face into my pillow, I tried to block out the thoughts gnawing at my head by focusing on the sounds around me. My own heartbeat, thumping away. The rain outside, once soothing, now serving as nothing more than a cruel reminder of Shaun Mars' imminent death. And Norman, sound asleep, no more than a few feet away.

* * *

 _Ethan lifted his head hitherto resting on his arm. Had he dozed off? He could've sworn it'd been dark only a second ago. Yet, the morning light flooding through the windows behind him denoted a night spent crying in the kitchen, in the same chair as where he'd helped Shaun with his homework less than two days ago. He straightened, and by reflex, wiped away tears incessantly streaming down his cheeks. Listening. To the muffled conversations from the crowd outside. Journalists, hungry for a scoop. Riddled with its share of curious onlookers. The relentless rainfall served as a soothing counterbalance to the harsh ticking of the clock mounted on the wall behind him, where each second served as a cruel reminder that his now only son was one second closer to be found dead at some godforsaken wasteland. Each tick and tock were another second spent in this numbing, self-loathing, pitiful existence of a life._

 _He gazed down at the paper lying in front of him. It had arrived by mail yesterday. He'd dismissed it as some kind of weird advertising, or a chain letter. But there was no sender, no return address, no logo, nothing to identify the source. Just an envelope with a stamp and his address containing a single sheet with a disturbing poem and ticket with an angel imprinted on it._

 _The paper was misfolded and wrinkled due to Ethan unremittingly curling the sheet in his hands while crying, but it was still legible._

 ** _"_** ** _When the parents came home from church,  
all their children were gone._**

 ** _They searched and called for them,  
they cried and begged,  
but it was all to no avail._**

 ** _The children have never been seen again."_**

 _Was this a riddle? A warning? A premonition? A cruel joke? Or just a strange coincidence? He had no idea what this had to do with him, or Shaun, if at all. But he knew he had to find out. He had to do… something. The ticket, it belonged to a luggage locker at Lexington Station. To avoid the reporters hurdling on the other side of his front door, he snuck out the kitchen entrance, listed through the alley leading to his car and left for the station. Unseen. Or, so he thought._

 _A few hours later, he found himself alone in a stranger's car, parked by the side of an empty road close to highway 95, ridden by fear. He had to show courage, the voice had said. If he wanted to see his son again, he would have to speed down a busy highway, against the traffic, reaching five miles within five minutes. If he succeeded, he'd get some letters of the address where Shaun was being held. If he refused or failed, Shaun might die. One mile per minute for five minutes, he'd have to drive sixty miles per hour! He gawked in the direction of the highway, and the traffic racing by. The rainfall alone made it hard enough to see, now the fog was rolling in, further reducing the visibility. There was no way he could do this. It was suicide! He'd die, and quite possibly cause the death of others as well. But if he didn't… no, he had to try. For Shaun. The GPS… the person behind the voice. They were no doubt monitoring the car's position to make sure he reached the destination in time, but they couldn't possibly know which lane he drove in, could they? Unless… his eyes panned the inside of the vehicle. He couldn't see any cameras, but he couldn't take any chances. He had to follow every instruction to the point. Shaun's life depended on it. His heart racing, and with unsteady hands that wouldn't stop shaking, he put the car in 'drive', loosened the hand brake and hit the throttle. The car spun in the direction of the freeway, passing the signs clearly stating, 'wrong way'._

* * *

At six I gave up trying to sleep, tossed the duvet aside, and put on the first piece of clothing I could find. A silver white laced top, faded, well-worn blue jeans and one of my many, beloved cardigans. Pulling the curtains aside, I tiptoed to the bathroom. _Hello, zombie-face._ A splash of cold water should take care of the worst drowsiness. As the content in my fridge was nothing short of tragic, I scooted out to buy hot drinks and croissants while Norman was still sound asleep. It was a good ten-minute walk to the closest OCF. Alas, I'd have to make do with Starbucks. Back in the apartment, I made my bed, piled up dirty laundry and organized my workbench whilst listening for sounds from the couch. After a few minutes, Norman started rubbing his eyes and stretching. Unshaven and with unkempt, messy hair, he was hella gorgeous. I mumbled something along the lines of giving him some privacy to get dressed and made a beamline for the bathroom where I found myself leaning over the sink for the second time in less than an hour on this early Wednesday morning. Yep, there was still blood flowing through my lower abdomen fo'sure. Damn, he looked fine! I on the other hand, was a mess. With pale skin, bloodshot, red eyes and yesterday's makeup merging with the dark circles under my eyes, it looked like I was auditioning for the band _Kiss_. I cleansed my face, dabbed anti-fatigue gel on the skin under my eyes, and added a hint of rouge to my cheeks. Now it looked like I was ready to audition for Kiss whilst blushing. _Great._ Relying on my thick-rim glasses to conceal the bags under my eyes, I untangled the bun holding my hair in place, and brushed through the entangled locks. As I exited the bathroom, a fully dressed Norman was putting on his tie.

"Hey you, eh, good morning. Did you sleep all right?"

"Yeah. Sure. Good morning."

"I got us breakfast," I peeped, nodding to the white and green paper bags.

"It's only…" he started, checking his watch, "It's not even 7 am."

"Oh, I'm always up early," I lied, hoping he'd ignore the humongous bags under my eyes.

"Thanks, but I should get going. Perry's expecting an update, and I have to go over some… um, you've already done more than enough, I-"

"Well, you still gotta eat," I reminded. "That brilliant mind of yours will work even better on a full stomach. Let's sit down and go over what we know."

I expected him to object further, or the very least hesitate, but instead he thanked me, threw his jacket on the couch, and joined me at my desk currently serving as a kitchen table. I handed him a Styrofoam cup with the universally known green Starbucks logo.

"Here, for you. You won't believe the look I got from the barista when I ordered a plain, black coffee," I chuckled, spotting a glimpse of a cheeky, acknowledging grin.

I retrieved the croissants with one hand whilst hiding my unremitting yawning with the other. Craving caffeine, I took a large zip of my black tea and grunted.

"You seem awfully tired for someone who's in the habit of getting up early." Sipping at his coffee, Norman had a light frown as he scrutinized my face. In the state I was in, I really wish he wouldn't.

"Just a couple of nights of lousy sleep," I shrugged. "Stress with studies, and… you know, work. Anyways, you said the victims drown after six inches of rainfall," I recalled, changing the subject. "What does that mean for Shaun?"

My companion had already wolfed down one croissant and was busy chewing on pastry number two. I wondered how long it'd been since his last proper meal.

"According to the forecasts… we got less than three days to find him alive."

"Shit!" I leaned back in my chair. "That's bad."

"Hopefully, CCTV from around the site of abduction will give us something to go on."

"I went to the crime scene yesterday," I confessed between chewing.

"Yeah, of course. You were at the park with me."

"No, I meant the other crime scene. The previous one. Where Susan Bowles' kid was found. And it was on Monday, not yesterday." Two nights of next-to-nothing sleep lead to a mix-up of Monday and Tuesday events. Norman stopped chewing altogether, and his brows curled into a bemused frown.

"Why would you...?"

"I _had_ to see it with my own eyes," I insisted. "It's not like I was doing anything illegal."

He didn't object, but he didn't exactly seem thrilled about it either, making me refrain from telling him about my chance meeting with Susan and Lauren. As well as my contact with Madison.

"Did I do something bad?"

"No, of course not. But it's not your job to…" the expression on my face made him stop mid-sentence. "You are part of the investigation, and I understand the need to see a crime scene for yourself. But you should've come to me first."

 _I wanted to. But you haven't been exactly forthcoming._

"I didn't want to intrude." I shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "You've been busy with, you know, interrogations and stuff."

"I have. But that's not an excuse to run off by yourself. You don't have the proper training, and you don't know who or what you might run into. Promise me you won't go off investigating on your own. Come to me first."

I nodded.

"That reminds me, I gotta talk to Gordi Kramer."

"Kramer?" As the agent rose from his seat, I brushed the crumbles from my hands and finished my tea in one swing. "The Kramer Constructions mogul's kid who used his father's money to get out of custody last weekend?"

"That's him. He's the only suspect I haven't questioned, yet. I'm gonna find out where he's holding up and ask him some questions."

"Can I join?"

"Yeah, sure. But I need to drop by the station first," the FBI agent apprised as he put on his jacket. "By the way, how much do I owe ya?"

"Don't worry about it, you brought me hot chocolate the other day," I reminded before he could protest. A smile and a nod, then the man who'd become so dear to me over the course of just a few days headed in the direction of the entrance, put his hand on the handle and hesitated.

"Lisa? Thank you, for everything."

"No worries," I smiled, wrapping my cardigan around my small frame. "You'd do the same for me."

"Of course," he smiled back.

"See you later, then?"

"Yeah. I'll give you a call."

As soon as I heard the sound of fading footsteps as Norman hasted down the staircase, I retrieved an Eppendorf tube from my bag, tilted it and studied the fine-grained, crystalline blue powder I'd taken from the vial last night before putting it back in Norman's jacket. Had it been the right choice? Of course not, but I was worried about him. And curious. One word to Ira and the mass spec would reveal its content in a few hours. Decisions, decisions. Getting ready for work, I felt the effect of two consecutive nights of poor sleep. Not even a cool shower could help with that. On any other day I'd call in sick, but with Shaun Mars abducted and still presumed alive every minute was precious, and I knew they needed me. At the precinct, I asked Ira to analyze the blue powder as a personal favor. I'd made my choice. No turning back now. At two pm, I dragged myself around like a sleepwalker, and Gabs ordered me to go home. On the bus back to my apartment, I stared absentmindedly out the window, longing for sunny days when a news segment on the radio had me sharpen my ears. _"At 11.30 today, a brown Ford Taurus was observed driving at 60 miles per hour southwest on highway 95, against traffic. The Taurus skid off the road and the scorched remains was found on a landslide close to the highway one mile from the H95 tollbooth. So far, no driver nor body has been located."_

Flashback to me and Jane at OCF, and a man on the phone, screaming about a near-accident as he'd almost been rammed by a car driving in the wrong lane. A coincidence? Had it been the same highway? I couldn't recall. Too tired to think more of it, I leaned against the seat and dozed off.

At home, I collapsed on the bed and fell asleep instantly.

* * *

 _Ethan found himself in front of an abandoned power station, knowing that this time, he'd have to suffer for his son. Given the unremitting pain from bruised ribs, he wondered if he hadn't suffered enough already. A kind stranger named Madison had tended to his wounds, but his chest still felt sore. At the very least, he was still alive. He'd but barely succeeded the first trial and as promised, he'd received some letters in return. And a video of Shaun. His little boy, almost neck deep in water. This was real, he knew it. And now he was about to face another trial. The second out of a total of five. If he completed them all successfully, he'd get the full address where Shaun was being held._ _Following freshly painted graffities of white butterflies, he was led to a hatch, leading into a narrow tunnel. The only source of light was a matchbox waiting for him at the start of the ominous passage. Was he supposed to crawl through? He'd barely fit. Lighting one of the matches, he gazed into the tunnel, seeing nothing but endless darkness. Despite the foreboding sense of peril, he crawled through the open hatch. It didn't take long before he felt a jolt of pain searing through his left arm, followed by the inside of his sleeve being soaked in something warm and moist. Lighting a match, he immediately realized why. Running through the tunnel was an endless carpet of broken glass. Glued in place. Impossible to sweep away. Horrified, he realized he had to crawl over countless, dangerously sharp spikes. To keep the pain at a minimum, he inched forward on all four. Slowly. All the same, the shards unceasingly cut into his arms and knees, making him bleed out of the growing number of open wounds. The pain was excruciating, but he refused to stop. He'd do anything to save his boy._

 _Running into a dead end, he came across a corpse. He felt certain it was another father, who'd failed the trial. The intact state of the body indicated a recent victim. Ethan's mouth went instantly dry. The cadaver was a grave and putrid reminder of the danger he was is._

 _Finally escaping the glass-ridden hell_ , _another tunnel led him to an open space with numerous, live transformers. Between them, a myriad of wires created a sea of high-voltage electricity. On the other side, an alluring milky-white butterfly graffiti. Nauseous and dizzy from pain and blood loss, and with scrapes all over his shaky limbs, Ethan crawled and halted through the perilous labyrinth of copper wires, burning himself severely on more occasions than one. At the other side, a memory card was waiting for him on a small table. More letters. Another video of Shaun. The next thing he remembered was lying on wet grass, surrounded by faint sounds of voices and vehicles. He had no recollection of how he'd gotten outside. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he eventually felt a tug at his sleeve and a voice he'd heard before, urging him to get up._

* * *

 **A/N: A shoutout to my reviewers. Your feedback is much appreciated. DistantxRain, I can assure you that even though Madison hasn't had a proper scene in a while, she's not forgotten.**

 **APieceOfThePuzzle. Thanks. And I don't ship them either. IMO, a relationship between Blake and Norman (or any relationship with Blake for that matter) would be so full of emotional abuse, it'd be downright toxic.**


	12. Chapter 12

The cellphone ripped me out of my sleep. I clawed after the noise, accidentally cancelling the call in the process. As I tried to locate the redial button, not an easy task with myopia sans glasses, the phone buzzed again.

"Hello," I mumbled.

"Lisa? It's Norman. I'm on my way to Kramer right now. If you still want to come, I can pick you up in ten minutes."

"Huh? What are you talk-…? Oh!" In my half-awoke state, it took me a couple of seconds to realize what the FBI agent was on about.

"Did I wake you?"

"No- eh, well, yes. But that's okay. I'll be waiting for you outside."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Gotta go. See you in a bit."

Phone in one hand, I gauchely put on my glasses with the other, poking my eye with the rims. Vision finally restored, I checked my phone for messages. I'd expected to see about five from Madison by now. Strangely there were none. I put on a pair of jeans, rushed a comb through my messy excuse of a mane, and tried to make my face look representable. I was starving, but there was no time to eat. Putting on my outerwear, I scoffed down a handful of mixed nuts and chugged half a bottle of ice tea. That'd have to do. Twelve minutes after waking up, I found myself in the FBI agent's car, on our way to the Kramer estate. Thanks to Norman's company, drowsiness was replaced by exhilaration.

"So, what's this Kramer guy's connection to the case?"

"Several witnesses saw victim number six, Joseph Brown, enter Gordi Kramer' limousine November 16 last year. The following day, his body was found at a wasteland in Camden, New Jersey."

"You think he's the Origami Killer?"

"I'm not sure yet. Cause of death was drowning in rainwater, like the other victims. He was found adjacent to a railroad track. His face was covered in mud. There was an orchid on his chest and an origami in his hand."

He didn't elaborate any further. Initiating his habitual chin-rubbing, and with his lips slightly apart, the FBI profiler was lost in his own thoughts, fully focused on the task at hand.

"But…?"

As if awoken from a trance, the agent diverted his attention to me with a bewildered frown.

"Sorry?"

"I sense a _'but'_ there."

I got a blank stare in return. "You just explained how cause of death and M.O. was the same as for the other victims. Yet you don't seem convinced Joseph was killed by the Origami Killer," I clarified.

"There are several inconsistencies," the profiler clarified. "His body was found only a day after the boy was reported missing, and he's the only victim found outside the city limits. The origami wasn't folded properly and the orchid was of the wrong species."

I pondered what he'd said. It did indeed sound like the work of someone who'd read about the Origami Killer in the papers, but wasn't fully familiar with the specific details regarding the murders.

"You think he might be a copycat or something?"

"It's a possibility."

"Then shouldn't we be focusing elsewhere?"

"It could also be that he _is_ the Origami Killer, but in this particular case he was sloppy, got distracted or unlucky," Norman disputed. "I have to talk to him to be absolutely sure. And right now, I can't afford anything but being absolutely sure."

Fair enough.

"If Joseph Brown was not killed by the Origami Killer, I can reduce the size of the comfort zone, narrowing down the area where the killer might reside. Besides, until the video surveillance from the area where Shaun Mars disappeared is available, it's the only proper lead I got."

"What about that private investigator, Shelby," I suggested. "Maybe he knows something?"

"I tried to contact him, but he's out of town till next week."

"He doesn't have a cell phone?"

"There's just a landline listed to his name. It sent me straight to his voice mail saying he'll be back in his office on Monday."

Outside, the properties were gradually getting larger and more extravagant, the roads wider and the sidewalks cleaner. We'd entered the fancier side of suburban Philadelphia.

"How's the investigation coming along?"

"As far as I know of Blake and Ash, they've been out on the streets all day, asking people if they've seen Shaun Mars," the agent informed. "I've been searching for the victims' fathers. In most cases, they went missing a day or two after their sons. But unlike the victims, the fathers have not been seen or heard from again."

"All but two. Hassan and…"

"Joseph Brown's father."

 _Of course._

"There _has_ to be a connection, right?"

"I'm sure of it," the profiler affirmed. "I just don't know what it is yet. I've been trying to locate the fathers all day, but it's like they've vanished into thin air."

"Including Ethan Mars?"

"I did try to call him earlier today, but there was no answer. He might be hiding from the press."

"You don't really think that, do you?"

There was a somber and grave look to the FBI agent's eyes as we drove past enormous properties with well-kempt gardens and massive buildings, finally swinging up to a double gated driveway. Norman readied his badge for the security men guarding the entrance, ensuring they'd allow us to enter the property.

"No… I don't."

The Kramer estate looked like your average, run-of-the-mill rich man's house. The building itself was white with hints of gold. Aside from the compulsory Greek-inspired columns that every rich man's doorway must have, the entrance was guarded by two canine statues reminiscent of the Egyptian god Anubis. Ignoring the Egyptian-inspired feline-head door hammers, Norman went inside the unlocked and unguarded door, and into a private party. Strange techno music emerged from various speakers, and half empty bottles were everywhere. There must've been around 40-50 people spread through the manor, intoxicated by who-knows-what wiggling about, dancing on tables, spread out on the floor, making out or clinging to each other or to the lavish, but ostentatious furniture. The best way to describe the women was _tits'n_ _ass_. Feeling uncomfortably out-of-place, I glanced at my companion, who seemed unfazed. Just another day at the office for him. He told me to wait by the living room entrance, while he talked to a pair of formally dressed men. Most likely hired security, judging by their stout body mass, the black suits and the fact that they seemed to be the only sober people here besides me and Norman. Preoccupied with trailing the FBI agent, I didn't notice the dark-haired guy in a white, oversized blazer sneaking up on me until he'd shoved his face up in mine.

"Hey babe," he gurgled as he groped my waist, clearly both high and drunk judging by his visibly dilated pupils, and the stench of strong liquor rising through my nostrils. I scoffed, and tried to back away, but his grip was too strong.

"Dude, just… chill!"

"Aww, you have one of them nose-thingies," he howled, nearly plunging his finger inside my nose.

"Brilliant observation," I retorted as I waved off his hand. Trying to twist free only resulted in him tighten his arm around my waist.

"Want me to hook you up, darlin'?" I gawped at him like he'd suggested to arm-wrestle a lion.

"Or, you just want to _hook_ up?" he hissed with a perverted leer, as his hand began feeling me up. "You look like you know how to party, you just need something to help you relax."

"Do we have a problem here?" A gentle, but firm tone emerged from my left.

"Nah, we cool. Rite, darlin'?" The drunken suitor hugged my shoulder as he grinned back at Norman.

"Actually…" I started.

"I'm trying to locate Gordi Kramer. Have you seen him?" Norman enquired whilst flashing his badge. The stoner's face dropped, and he loosened his grip enough for me to twist free.

"No idea where he's at," he snapped, avoiding eye-contact.

"Do you have any illegal substances on you, sir?" the FBI agent continued.

"Err, of course not."

"Then I suggest you go about with your business, and leave my colleague alone."

 _Colleague._

My stoned admirer stumbled off into a crowd of wiggling bodies attempting to dance.

"Are you okay?"

"I was on top of it," I grunted.

"It looked like he was making you uncomfortable."

"Yeah… he was," I murmured, subsequently changing the subject. "How'd go with the suits?"

"They agreed to five minutes. C'mon, Kramer's upstairs."

The men in black ogled us as we passed them, and remained glued to our backs as we escalated the marble staircase. Without a word, they pointed us to the right door. A nauseatingly, sweet smell of incense hit my nose the moment we entered the room. The decoration was of the tacky kind, aka _money does not account for taste_. A wall of patterned glass shielded the bed and a hot tub from the TV/sitting area. I spotted two women sleeping. At least, I hoped they were sleeping. Odd canine-like statues were placed on each side of a small, frosted glass table supported by miniature statues, the tabletop corners serving as pillories. Bright-colored paintings with a peculiar pattern reminiscent of a toddler's drawings were placed haphazardly on the walls. Gordi was sitting on a golden leather couch, sniggering at a sadistic cartoon depicting a chicken desperately trying to escape a gruesome fate of being plucked and cooked alive. He let out bursts of vicious laughter as the chef raised his butcher's knife, and resumed chasing the terrified poultry across the kitchen. The security guards remained in the doorway, glaring at us as Norman introduced himself to the room's occupant.

"Norman Jayden, FBI. I'm investigating the Origami Killer case, and I have some questions for you."

Eager to see what'd happen next to the poor bird, the self-important, rich-man's kid ignored him. On closer inspection, those were not statues but actual furniture made to look like hounds. They seemed highly impractical and were most likely for 'decorative' purposes. Norman restated the reason for his visit. That little brat had the audacity to shush him.

"I'm here to talk about Joseph Brown," the agent persisted. "Several witnesses saw the nine-year-old enter your limo the day before his body was found on some godforsaken, out-of-town wasteland."

Still ignoring the FBI agent, the person of interest howled in exhilaration as the blade scraped the chicken's neck, repeatedly clapping his palm on his thigh. Norman leaned in close to the occupant's face. "You know how he died, don't you Gordi? Drowned, in the goddamn rain." Raising his voice, the profiler pointed at the closest window.

"When he was found, he had an orchid on his chest and an origami in his hand," he informed in a calm and manipulative tone. "It doesn't look very good, now does it, _Gordi?_ "

Like flipping a switch, Gordi's face went from gleeful to cold.

"Get out," he snarled. I thought he was talking to us, but apparently it was directed towards the goons in the doorway. As they left, he turned to Norman with eyes devoid of soul.

"Kid was lost. I merely offered to take him home," he 'clarified' in a feigned, innocent tone. "I've already explained this unfortunate misunderstanding to the police."

The stare game continued as Norman made it sardonically clear that he did not believe one word of what Gordi had just said.

"So, what you're telling me is that like a good Samaritan, you merely offered to take this kid home, who happen to be lost right next to your limousine, the day before his body was found. You really think I'm gonna fall for that?"

The scoundrel remained cool as frost. "I don't care what you believe, Mr. _FBI_."

"It's not the first time you've tried to lure boys into your car, is it Gordi? So why don't cha stop this charade, and tell me what really happened."

Gordi rose, and with a steady and calm conduct, he returned Norman's glare. "I'm done talking to the cops," he hissed. Then he turned his attention to me, and flashed me the creepiest, soulless smile I've ever seen. "But I'll talk to the broad. With those hipster glasses and that cute little nose ring, you're certainly no cop."

"Out of the question!" Norman barked, positioning himself between me and Kramer Jr.

"Norman, it's okay."

Bafflement flashed over his face, and he rushed to my side whilst Gordi glared at us with a self-satisfied grin. "He's playing with us," he grumbled, his bright green eyes locked on mine.

"I know," I mouthed. "But we have to get him to talk, remember?"

Visibly dissatisfied with how the situation was evolving, Norman pulled a _I can't believe this_ -grimace. _I'll be fine_ , I mouthed, my eyes locked on his. Failing to come up with a better idea, he reluctantly agreed. Diverting his attention to Gordi, his eyes narrowed, and he arrogantly raised his chin.

"All right. But I'll stay!"

The profiler leaned against the wall adjacent to a statue of an ancient Greek athlete. Crossing his arms, his right hand patted his left elbow. He had his attention glued onto Gordi.

"You like my little love den, sweetheart?" the host started, making an arm gesture as to showcase the imminent surroundings. I was not the one to openly criticize people's décor, so I remained quiet.

"So, you wanna hear my little secret, is that so?" he whispered, leaning in close to my face. I could feel his breath on my ear.

"I'm the Origami Killer," he 'confessed' as the side of his mouth curled into a jeering sneer that'd have made the Grinch proud. Keeping his face obnoxiously close to mine, he circled around me as he continued his disturbing monologue. Every step he took made a near impeccable 'tap'-sound as he moved across the marble-tilted floor.

"I abduct little boys by luring them into my car, and I drown them… in rainwater. Then I dump their bodies on a wasteland with an orchid on their chest and an origami in their tiny, lifeless hand."

Lifting his chin, Gordi closed his eyes and inhaled, as if savoring a pleasant memory. Strobe light from the cartoon reflected on his face, making his skin look sickly and ghost-like. If his intention was to make me feel sick to my stomach, he'd succeeded, but I refused to let this sociopath take pleasure in my discomfort. Norman stepped off the wall. The man being 'interrogated' shot him a _stay there_ -glare, making the FBI agent scowl. I gave a miniscule nod to indicate it was all right. The profiler took one step back, looking ready to interfere at any moment. Leaning in even closer, the man claiming to be the Origami Killer delivered his 'punchline'.

"You wonder why I do this, little dove? It's simply because I enjoy it. You see, I'm bored. And taking these children's lives gives me joy. _Soo…_ Much. Joy. It's a…"

"That's enough!"

Before I could blink, the FBI agent stood between me and the emotionally abusive deviant. I backed away, grateful to have that worm out of _my_ 'comfort' zone. Even with Norman's face up in his, Gordi kept his attention glued on me.

"That is what you wanted to hear, isn't it sweet-cake? If you want more, I- ugh."

He choked on his words as Norman's clenched his jacket, and pressed his arm into his chest. The chicken had been trapped in a pot and was now, much to the chef's delight, being cooked alive.

"It's a screw," I responded coldly.

Judging from the fainting smirk and the crease forming on his forehead, it was not the response he'd expected, which made me feel smug. Both men looked at me, baffled.

"You called this a ring," I reminded, pointing at my pierced nostril. "This is however, referred to as a screw. Or a stud, depending on the shape of the inside-part."

Like Sméagol turned Gollum, Gordi's face morphed into a hideous grimace, his brows forming one, long unibrow.

"I mean, does it _look_ ring-shaped to you?" I asked in a mocking tone. His eyes turned demonic. Then he diverted his attention to the agent, his expression reverting to emotionless and stone cold.

"Do you know who my father is?" he breathed, aping Norman's calm and manipulative tone from earlier. "All it takes is one call. One call and you lose your badge. Or worse."

A glowering Norman inched closer to the deviant's face to demonstrate how his attempts at intimidation had no effect, causing the creep to steer his attention back at me.

"Or maybe I should have your little _friend_ over there disappear instead?"

I gaped as Norman closed his hand around the weasel's throat. "If anything happens to her, anything at all, no money nor connections in the world is gonna help you. Understood?"

Gordi's eyes widened and for a brief moment, he yelped in panic as he struggled to free himself. Norman loosened his grip, and the goblin jerked backwards, causing him to trip over one of those stupid dog-chairs.

"Get rid of them!" he barked to the goons that had reappeared in the doorway.


	13. Chapter 13

The muscle suits were kind enough to 'escort' us out of the premises. Still riding a self-satisfied high from the clash with Gordi, I tensed up as one of them grabbed me by the arm. Resisting their pull, I argued I could walk myself out, whilst Norman urged me to remain calm. Outside, I leaned against one of the pillars framing the front door, lowered my head and breathed heavily.

"Lisa…?"

"It's okay. I'm fine. Did you get what you needed?"

Ignoring my question, Norman lightly shook my shoulder to get my attention. "He was manipulating you," he stressed, his green eyes staring directly into mine. "He wanted you to break. You did good."

The concern in his eyes, accompanied by a mellow voice thick with pride made me falter more than any entitled brat ever could. I had to fight the sudden urge to throw myself into his arms.

"Pfft, dude's spoiled rich-kid's act can only be matched by his creep level, am I rite?" I snorted, attempting to make light of the tense situation. Norman's brows furrowed in bewilderment.

"I'm sorry, what…?"

"Never mind. Seriously, I'm fine. Let's get the hell away from here, yeah?"

"Gordi Kramer is not the Origami Killer," he ensured in his best _FBI profiler_ -tone as we made our way down the entrance stairway, his hand lingering on my back.

"I know."

"Yeah? How?"

"He seems to be of the supposition that the Origami Killer kills these boys because he enjoys it. But I don't think that's the case. For one, it's inconsistent with anonymizing the victims by covering their faces in mud."

"Well observed. In addition to the aforementioned inconsistences, several witnesses saw Joseph Brown go into Gordi's car. With the Origami Killer, there's never anyone to witness the abductions. Furthermore, he doesn't fit the psychological profile. The killer we're looking for is calm and collected. Gordi showed signs of repressed aggression, and is prone to sudden bursts of rage."

"So, he's innocent?" I queried as the FBI agent unlocked his car.

"No, he did kill Joseph," Norman stated with certainty as he leaned on his car. "I'm sure of it. He's a killer all right, but not the calm, organized and methodical killer we're looking for."

"As I understand it correctly, the Origami Killer's M.O. with the anonymization of the victims, and the apologetic act of giving gifts, suggest he doesn't actually _want_ to kill these boys. So, why does he?"

"Good question," the profiler acknowledged as he swung into the driver's seat. "I have no idea."

 _So, why does he?_ That was the million-dollar question. The more I thought about this case, the more mystified I was. There was also something… a connection I didn't see yet, a conclusion I was unable to draw. A crucial piece of the puzzle dancing alluringly right in front of me, out of my reach. The more I thought of it, the more my head hurt.

As we inched our way down the driveway, steering clear of intoxicated guests stumbling around the outside premises, a mob of suits blocked our path. We came to a halt, and the uniformly dressed guards scurried aside. An elderly man in his sixties appeared, signaling for Norman to roll down the window. He was dressed in a plain olive suit, sporting a fake tan and a thick, silver mane. With a deep, almost guttural voice, he presented himself as Charles Kramer, Gordi Kramer's father.

"Agent Jayden, it's come to my attention that you paid my son a visit tonight with some very serious allegations without my consent or knowledge."

"That's right," the FBI agent confirmed. "I wanted to know if Gordi has something to do with the Origami Killer case. Your son is a grown man, Mr. Kramer. I don't need your knowledge or permission to ask him questions."

Kramer Sr. put both hands where the window had been, and locked eyes with the profiler.

"Stay away from my son," he hissed. "He's got nothing to do with that sordid case."

The agent glared back. "That's for me to decide."

Shifting tactic, the silver fox moved out of Norman's comfort zone, softened his expression and changed his tone. "I'm an influential man, agent Jayden," he affirmed as a smirk formed on his lips. "I'm sure we could come to some sort of… agreement."

Norman scowled back at the entitled business tycoon. "Bribes don't work on me, Mr. Kramer. I don't play that game."

Enraged that neither threats nor bribes worked, Kramer's upper lip curled upwards into a menacing sneer. Glowering at the agent, he put on his most intimidating face. "Stay the hell away from my son, you hear me?" he hissed. "Or else..."

Before he could finish, Norman closed the window in Kramer's face, and sped out of the driveway. Heading in the direction of downtown Philadelphia, the FBI agent appeared calm, but the stern look in his eyes combined with difficulty to keep within the speed limit told me he was boiling inside.

"How are you going to prove that Gordi killed Joseph Brown?" I asked.

"I don't know yet. Right now, our priority is finding Shaun Mars."

I leaned against the seat. My head turning towards the window, I trailed the streetlights outside. It sounded cold. Little Joseph deserved justice, and his family answers. But Norman was right. Joseph was dead and Shaun was still alive. At this point, finding and saving Shaun Mars had to be our priority number one. Even if that meant letting a child murderer walk free. For now.

"I know," I replied somberly.

"His actions won't go unpunished. I promise."

I responded with a smile, relieved to see his expression alleviating. We drove in silence for a while. I listened to the soothing sound of raindrops hitting the car's metal bodywork while trailing the myriad of mini-streams interlacing on the windows, distorting the city lights, occasionally throwing a glance at my companion, grateful to be in his presence. I'd never been so comfortable sharing moments of silence with another person before, notwithstanding the grim circumstances. In fact, I'd never felt so safe and comfortable with anyone.

"How are you holding up?"

The question, as well as the sudden disruption of silence stumped me. I'd become so used to it being me breaking the silence when the FBI profiler was lost in his own mind.

"I'm good. Why do you ask?"

"Because of all that's happened over the last few days. The discovery of Jeremy Bowles' body, the interviews with the parents, the disappearance of Shaun Mars, the incident at Kramer's..."

He made small, circular gestures as he spoke, altering his attention between me and the traffic.

"You mentioned you hadn't been sleeping well lately, and I'm not sure if bringing you with me tonight was the right-"

"I'm fine," I assured, cutting him off. The furrow on his forehead told me he wasn't convinced.

"I chose to be part of this," I countered. We came to a red light, giving Norman the opportunity to devote his full attention on me. "I wanted to come with you because-" I paused, my cheeks burning.

"Because I really enjoy your company. And I wanted to spend time with you."

There. It had finally been said out loud. The crease on the FBI agent's forehead faded. He didn't reply, but the surprise in his eyes and the parting of his lips said more than words ever could. Resisting the impulse to lower my gaze in self-awareness, I smiled shyly at my stumped companion. And got a warm beam in return. Words were not needed. The light switched, and Norman's attention shifted back to the road. I resumed staring out the passenger seat window and the lights outside, beautifully distorted by the rain, smiling to myself.

"By the way, thanks for the help with that meth-head earlier." It was my turn to break the silence.

"Sure, um, no problem."

"I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that… I guess it made me feel like some damsel in distress."

"I didn't mean to…"

"I know, I know."

Upon arriving at my apartment complex, I loosened the seat belt and thanked Norman for the ride as I opened the door, grateful that University City was not in the Origami Killer's _comfort zone_.

"Can I walk you up?"

He seemed in no rush to get back at his hotel. Or was that mere wishful thinking on my behalf?

"Sure."

Walking up the stairs, he asked if I was satisfied with my apartment. I admitted I wasn't too happy about the small size, but had nonetheless put my best effort into making it homely and cozy. It wasn't much of an issue anyways, as it was a temporary arrangement. We both agreed it'd be a relief to return to the capital.

"Here we are. My front door."

"I know," Norman snickered. "I spent the night here."

As we awkwardly stumbled through our goodbyes, I mentally debated whether to acknowledge the sparks flying between us. Due to the ongoing investigation, the timing was piss-poor. But the heart wants what it wants. And there was little doubt what my heart wanted.

"Make sure you get enough sleep," the agent urged. Then the somber look on his face softened. "Thanks for coming with me. I… enjoy your company as well. Good night, Lisa."

As my chances at advancements slid away like sand from the Tatooine deserts stranded on Naboo as the most awkward pick-up line in recent movie history, Jane's words of encouragement echoed in my head.

 _Sometimes you gotta go for it, ya know._

"Norman?" I peeped at his back.

"Yes?"

Oh, how I wished I had the guts to pull him close and kiss him, like they did in the movies. Or at the very least, invite him in. But try as I may, I couldn't find the courage. Instead I stood frozen in place, dumbfounded whilst Norman was waiting for my next line.

 _Say something, anything._

"Can… eh, can I try on the ARI?" I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The untimely request clearly caught him by surprise. "Now? Here?" he queried, raising a brow.

"Just for a moment," I peeped as my lips curled into a gawky grimace. I had no explanation as to why I'd chosen this precise moment to try on the enigmatic shades. Doing my best to retain composure, I hoped he wouldn't push it any further. He didn't. Instead, he handed over the seemingly ordinary half-rim sunglasses. Removing my spectacles, I collected the VR-glasses and unfolded the temples. Despite my concerns, I doubted much harm would come from only a few minutes of use. And I did want to experience the whole augmented reality-thing first-hand.

"How do I…?"

"Just put them on. I'll start the simulation."

I did as I was told. The ARI appeared as any dark-lens shades would in a dim-lit, dusty hallway. Norman put on the accompanying glove, leaned in and fiddled with the right-hand temple. The device sprung to life, and several hexagonal-shaped, blue-tinted, luminescent spherical orbs materialized in front of me. I reached out to touch them.

"Without the _Smart_ Glove you won't be able to interact with the virtual elements."

I retracted my hand. "Oh."

"Here, let me handle the program," Norman advised as he put his arm around me to adjust the knobs aligning the left temple with his un-gloved hand.

"ARI will automatically adjust to your sight, so everything will appear as if you were wearing your glasses," he assured. After he was done, he put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in close to my head. His cheek brushed against my temple, making my skin tingle, and my pulse racing. He used his gloved hand to swirl the orbs and after some fumbling, activated one with a maple leaf in it. Before I knew it, I found myself engulfed in a myriad of red, yellow and orange.

"Whoa!"

My head spun, and I made a 360-degree turn. I was in a thick forest, surrounded by broadleaf trees and omnipresent, beautiful autumn-colored leaves on every branch, in the air and on the ground. The walls were represented by a wooden fence, a visualization of the boundaries in the physical world. The time of day appeared to be either early-morning dawn or evening dusk. I could hear the wind rustling the trees, and I could've sworn I smelled the earthly scent of moist, rotting leaves. The FBI agent looking at me with amusement being the only element from the physical world still visible in the ARI-generated, virtual environment. How that worked exactly, I couldn't even begin to fathom.

"What do you think?"

"Incredible!"

I reached out to touch the falling leaves, only to watch them pixelate and disappear. Even though I'd recently been informed I'd need Norman's glove to interact with the ARI-rendered virtual elements, I couldn't help myself.

"This is so real! It feels so real!" I exclaimed.

"It's a highly intense experience," the FBI agent acknowledged. "When employees first try them on at the bureau, they're advised to be seated."

"I can see why."

Norman's grip on my shoulder strengthened as he reached forward to reassemble the orbs, each representing a virtual environment. This time, he chose one with a water drop. The forest instantly disappeared and in its place a vibrant, underwater world sprung to life with schools of fish swimming amongst bright corals and seaweed the height of trees. I spun around, and stretched out my arms again. A myriad of bubbles, small and large, the pristine, sand-filled bottom scattered with rocky formations, the rays from the sun above, the sound of being underwater. It was mesmerizing.

"I thought you might like these," the agent smiled in his customary soft-spoken voice, which I'd come to greatly appreciate.

"I do, I absolutely do," I called out enthusiastically as I tried to catch the fish. Despite my concerns, which were still very much valid, I allowed myself to get carried away. Norman let me play for a few minutes, chuckling at my enthusiasm, then he retrieved the orbs again and chose one with clouds.

"I think we can do one more. This particular simulation can be a bit overwhelming," he warned.

In the blink of an eye, the underwater environment was gone, and clouds materialized around me. It took a couple of seconds for the grass-covered mountain peak to assemble under my feet, or, for me to realize it was there. For a moment, it felt like I was standing on thin air. Vertigo sat in. I couldn't tell up from down, and it felt as if I was falling. I screamed out, and staggered backwards.

"I'm right here," Norman assured with that soothing tone of his, firmly gripping my shoulders. "If you want to quit, let me know."

I put my left hand on his fingers and squeezed. I didn't know what made me tremble the most. The ARI-induced vertigo, or Norman's touch. Thankfully, my neighbors were either not home or too stoned to care about my outbursts. With wisps of clouds gliding amongst numerous mountain peaks, a rainbow and waterfalls in the distance, it was a picturesque assembly of pixels. Holding onto the FBI agent for support, I moved towards the 'edge' to get a better look at the river floating through the canyon, peaked over… and felt like I was getting sucked down.

"Oh my God!" I shrieked.

"Okay, that's enough," Norman stated, ending the simulation.

I removed the shades and fumbled for my glasses, all while clinging to his chest with short, shallow gasps. The FBI agent pocketed the sunglasses, his left arm remaining firmly around my shoulders. He looked at me with a slight frown, conveying a blend of concern and affection. I leaned against him, and he put both arms tightly around me.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to get uncomfortable. I shouldn't have started the last one. How do you feel? Are you okay?"

I couldn't tell if it was out of affection, or if he merely mistook my advances as unwellness caused by the ARI. Actually, I wasn't sure myself. But if there ever was anything such as the perfect moment for a first kiss, this was it. I grabbed his jacket, pulled him close and kissed his lips gently.

He retracted, his lips parting in surprise. Contemplating whether to stay serious or joke the whole occurrence away, I remained silent, gawking at the man I'd just kissed. Just as I started to worry I'd made a huge mistake, he moved in and, after a second of faltering hesitation, placed his hands on my face, caressing my cheeks. He was still wearing the ARI-glove, and the leather felt rough compared to the warmth and softness of his ungloved fingers. I leaned forward, tilted my head and lifted my chin. When he finally kissed me back, it was so light and soft, his lips just barely brushed mine. But it was enough to knock the world from under my feet. I nibbled on his upper lip, slowly and teasingly, savoring the moment as he entangled his fingers into my locks. Strands of hair got stuck in the glove, and I made an indiscernible whimper as he inadvertently pulled my hair. Flustered, he instantly stopped and apologized, oblivious to the jolts of pleasure the sensation had sparked. I responded by wrapping my arms around his neck, intuitively pushing my hips towards his. Trailing his jaw with my fingertips, I coaxed him to open his mouth by gently pushing at his chin with my thumb. Finally, we embraced in a heated kiss that would've made the French proud.

When we stopped, we both gasped for air. We stood still for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. There was no denying the chemistry, and every inch of my wobbly, petite body ached for more. But this was not the time to peruse a romance. Not while the investigation was still going. Not with Shaun Mars still missing.


	14. Chapter 14

_Early Thursday morning, not even 8 am, Ethan staggered into a dim and seedy apartment building. There was no one around but him. Due to a recent fire, the residents had been relocated. He ascended a flight of stairs, and entered a narrow hallway filled with soot, dust and… numerous bright-colored, lizard-shaped figurines scattered on the floor. He crouched, picking one up. The shimmering porcelain stood out in comparison to the tatty surroundings. Otherwise, there didn't seem to be anything unusual about it. He picked up another one. Still nothing that caught his eye. Then a third, groaning in agony as his back objected to the continuous squatting. Despite popping painkillers and exceeding the recommended dosage, he was still sore from yesterday's trials. He heard a distinct rattling sound. Something was inside the lizard's belly. He smashed the figurine on the concrete floor. A key. For the door sporting a paint-on lizard. A lizard key for a lizard door. How fitting. Not knowing what to expect, Ethan peeked inside, squinting at the morning light inflowing from a curtainless window. The miniscule apartment was even more rampaged than the corridor outside. In the middle of the living room was a table filled with various tools and a GPS. Hesitantly, he sat down and tapped the screen, wondering what horrors awaited him. The same soulless, female voice from yesterday's courage challenge spoke to him, each word filling him with dread._

 ** _Are you prepared to suffer to save your son? You have five minutes to cut off the last section of one of your fingers in front of the camera. If you succeed, you will get your reward._**

 _As the realization hit, Ethan jolted up and lurched backwards. Shock, revulsion, disbelief and numbing fear were all flying though his weakened body on the verge of collapsing from physical pain and emotional stress. He was living a nightmare. A_ _real-life, waking nightmare. Why was this happening? Why him? Feeling like one of the unlucky protagonists of the numerous Saw movies, his eyes scanned the table. A_ _butcher's knife, a saw, a hatchet, a pair of scissors, pliers, a piece of wood to bite down on, a disinfectant, a hip flask… Ethan snatched the container and shook it. Slosh, slosh. He unscrewed the lid, and put the tip to his nose. The pungent scent of alcohol and an aroma reminiscent of leather and charred wood hit his nose. Bourbon? It didn't matter, as long as it was strong enough to numb the ice-cold dread of what he was about to do. There was also a rusty steel pipe and a propane tank for cauterizing the wound._

 _The monitor unrelentingly counting down to zero paid no heed to his terror-ridden state or conflicting emotions. He sank into the chair, telling himself over and over to not be afraid, like a mantra. Four minutes left. He lit the gas burner, wrapped a cloth around one end of the rod and put the other end into the blue flame, gorging down the content of the hip flask as the metal heated up. Two and a half minutes left. Heart racing, he poured disinfectant over his left pinky, getting more and more panicky with every second ticking by. Two minutes left. The iron was now glowing. The butcher's knife. The only tool available designed for cutting through flesh and bone. He sterilized the blade, bit down on the kindling, stretched out the finger to be sacrificed and aligned the blade perpendicular to the protruding body part. Relentless shivering made it near impossible to keep his hand in one place. One minute left. He lifted the knife, and… No! He couldn't muster enough courage to go through with it. What kind of sick, sadistic satisfaction was this torture porn to the person on the other side of the camera? Twenty seconds. He had to do it. Now. For Shaun. Don't think. Just do it. Forcing his muscles to cooperate, he placed his finger under the blade, rose, and rammed his entire body weight over the knife. As steel hit bone, he let out a piercing scream. The pain was unbearable, like nothing he'd ever felt before. Leaning over the knife again, he let out bursts of primal, animal-like roars as the blade severed the knuckle. He collapsed on the floor, curling up like a deformed metal rod, as blood oozed out of the stump. In a haze, he managed to grab a hold of the heated iron. Jolts of insufferable pain shot through his arm and spread throughout his body. Dark dots appeared before his eyes, and he could hear the blood rushing to his head. Then everything went black._

 _When he came through, he was lying in a puddle of his own body fluids. Sweat, urine, snot, spit, vomit and blood. He didn't even remember throwing up. The pain was still excruciating, but he'd regained some control of his limbs. A metallic scent mixed with burnt meat and alcohol lingered in the air. A static, robotic voice reached his ears, telling him to search under the desk. Crawling up to the table, he tore off loose planks till he found his reward. Another memory card. A video of Shaun submersed in water up to his neck, followed by more letters to this torturous, demonic form of hangman. "I did what I had to, Shaun," he whispered at the now black screen. "I love you."_

 _He had no idea where the cut-off finger was. He didn't want to either. He collapsed on a well-worn sofa close to the entrance, drifting in and out of consciousness. Every time he tried to pull himself up, his body sank down again, still in shock from the forced self-amputation. After three torturous trials, he was too beat-up, he'd lost too much blood. Someone was ponding on the door. Then daylight flooded the hallway. A silhouette. Ethan squinted at the shadow. Madison?_

* * *

Thursday around noon, as I was sitting by my desk getting absolutely nothing done whatsoever, an agitated Madison called. Jane cooked a brow as I whooshed past her to my mentor's empty office, where I tried to calm her down. She refused to talk over the phone and asked, or more accurately, begged me to meet her. Alone. Was this another petty attempt at scoring information? She sounded genuinely distraught. I told Jane I was heading out for lunch, and asked her to cover for me if I wasn't back within the hour. She rolled her eyes in an overbearing, exaggerated manner, and chortlingly apprised it'd cost me a latte. _And_ a frappe if I wasn't back by two. She'd likely drawn the erroneous conclusion that I was meeting up with Norman. If only. I already felt guilty about asking her to cover for me for the fourth time in a week, and not setting it straight made it hella worse. Loyalty to Jane and my promise to Norman weighed against the earlier cancelled plans with Madison and the stress in her voice begging for my help. I had to at least hear her out. Half an hour later, I found myself wandering the streets of a lower middle-class suburbia northwest of the city center. Not where I'd imagined Madison's apartment to be. Approaching the rendezvous point, I spotted the journalist under a large, bushy tree, leaning against a motorcycle. Upon seeing me, she sprinted to meet me.

"Lisa, thank God. I'm so glad you could make it. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I might have a… a possible lead on the Origami Killer."

I didn't reply, not verbally at least. But my dumbfounded moping combined with eyebrows shooting halfway up my forehead left little doubt to my immediate reaction. Dumbstruck, I tried to come up with a half-sensible response.

"I know it sounds crazy, but just hear me out…"

She leaned in, as to say something in confidence, but a change of heart had her turn away and lower her chin, as if contemplating exactly what and how much to share. I was mystified. If she already had a lead, and thereby knew something I didn't, what could she possibly need me for? Was this another set-up? What game was she playing here?

"Two blocks from here is the residence of Adrian Baker, a physician who was forced to 'retire' a few years ago due to writing one too many illegal prescriptions. He goes by the nickname _the doc_."

She spoke in a serious and low-key tone, making it hard to hear some of the words, especially with the relentless, never-ending shower of rain around us, every inch of downpour driving poor Shaun Mars closer to certain death. I suggested taking shelter under an empty bus shed nearby.

"I have reasons to believe this _'doc'_ has been in contact with the Origami Killer, either directly or indirectly," the reporter continued as we escaped the rain. "I'm going to pretend I'm a customer interested in buying Betropen, casually strike up a conversation, and see what I can learn."

"Wait, wha- you're going to… _what_?"

Madison went on to helpfully clarify that Betropen was sleeping medicine, which I already knew. Rewinding and re-playing our short, but strange conversation in my head, I tried to piece together what I'd just learned, and how to convince her to leave this ridiculous idea be.

"Just casually what, Madison? You're just _casually_ going to ask him if one of his customers is a serial killer?" The short-haired brunette opened her mouth to speak. I wasn't done.

"Do you have an actual plan to go with this, or are you just gonna _casually_ go _hey, about that Origami Killer..._ like you did with me?"

Madison diverted her eyes, and closed her mouth. I felt a stab of remorse. Had I gone too far? "You do realize this could be dangerous?" I stressed, softening my posture. "Why do you believe this guy has a connection to the Origami Killer in the first place?"

Ignoring my objections, the brown-haired woman in the purple-brown leather jacket continued in low, almost muttering voice. "I have the cover story ready; if he asks me how I heard of him, I'll tell him that I was at a party last weekend, and got his name from some guy popping Betropen."

Cover story established, and not a bad one I had to agree, overall idea still reckless and ludicrous. I tried yet again to reason with her.

"All right, let's assume you're right. What makes you so sure this 'doc' even knows that one of his customers is the Origami Killer? And even if he does, what makes you think he'll tell you anything? These guys tend to keep a low profile."

The reporter started pacing the narrow bus shed, fumbling with her fingers. Not calmly and tenderly like Norman, but franticly and nervously.

"Oh, no. Don't tell me you have a gun-"

"No! Nothing like that. Look, the doc owns an apartment complex… several of them, actually. But the one I'm interested in is located in the Stanton district. On Marble Street to be exact. As we arrange the deal, I'll mention that I'm interested in renting an apartment at or near Marble Street."

 _Wait, what?_

Apartments? Marble Street? And she didn't deem it necessary to share this tiny, but highly relevant detail with me until now? Here I thought this was about acquiring illegal drugs. Or, was that what she'd wanted me to believe? By giving me detailed, but insufficient information while simultaneously withholding relevant details, she counted on me to draw my own conclusions. What else was she not telling? I had a feeling this went beyond merely protecting her sources. I decided to switch tactics.

"Look Madison, is all this really worth a scoop? Why don't we let the police handle this one, eh?"

Brown eyes met mine, pleading for my help. She'd taken a great risk involving me in the first place, and now her entire plan depended on my subsequent actions. I could work with that. Retaining eye contact, I pulled out my phone, which earned a low, but horrified gasp from the brunette.

"Here, let me call them. I know a guy there, and…"

"NO!"

Madison's immediate reaction was to lock her hand around my wrist. Realizing how dubious she'd been, she let go and backed away with an unsettling expression. I gave her a feigned, baffled look.

"Whoa, you really want the story this bad?"

She was about to speak again, but I was in no mood for anything but the full truth. If she wanted my help, she'd have to tell me everything. I hit the precinct on speed dial, and put the phone to my ear.

"Don't! I'll tell you everything. Just please, hang up!"

I clicked the cancel button and lowered my hand, but held firmly onto the phone, my gaze steadily locked onto hers. Making sure no one was nearby, she leaned in again.

"You can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you," she whispered. "I'm asking you, not as a journalist but as a friend. Someone's life depends on it."

My first instinct was to sardonically call her a journalist cliché for valuing a story as much as a human life. However, Madison's dead-serious expression made me reconsider.

"I-I've been in contact with the missing boy's father, Ethan Mars."

My pulse quickened as I recalled my conversation with Norman yesterday. He'd been unable to get a hold of Mr. Mars, a concerning fact indeed as most of the victims' fathers were no longer anywhere to be found. How'd Madison been able to track him down?

"I mean… not like that… he… well, yes, I tracked him down, and yes I was looking for a story, but…"

Despite my thumping heart, I played cool, fiddling with my phone to remind her I could call my work at any moment. Realizing this did little to impress or convince me, Madison decided to share another piece of information, one which made me go cold.

"I'm not the only one that's been in contact with Ethan," she whispered. "So has the Origami Killer."

"What _?!_ But how…?"

A sensation I could only describe as flares of ice shot through my veins. The missing fathers… was the Origami Killer behind that too? Was he now after Ethan? Taking a deep breath, Madison filled me in on what she'd been up to the last couple of days.

"Early yesterday morning, I was waiting outside Ethan's apartment, along with other reporters."

I raised a brow and gave her a ' _wow, really'_ -look.

"Try to see it from my side," she pled. "Because of my insomnia, I haven't handed in a proper article in weeks, and I'm terrified of getting fired. I spotted Ethan sneaking into his car and drive away. He must've snuck out the back door or something. Either way, no one seemed to notice, except me."

With the tucking of imaginary locks behind her hear, constant fumbling with her sleeves and relentless pacing, she seemed more than just a little nervous.

"I pretended I had to go to a meeting, and trailed Ethan to Lexington Station, where he picked up a shoebox with origami figures."

"How'd you know the content of the shoebox?"

"I didn't know that then. I followed Ethan to this run-down motel in Rittenhouse, went home to pack some things, and returned to check in to the same motel. His car was gone by then so I stayed in my room, where I kept watch by the window. He returned after a few hours."

The journalist paused, her eyes flickering. A shoebox with origami figures for Shaun's dad. Out of eight victims, six fathers had never been heard from again... There was no way this was just a coincidence. If what she was telling me was true…

"And?" I encouraged.

"He was completely beat up!" Madison low-key shrieked. The stress in her tone was evident. I wasn't so sure if it was the cold I was shivering from.

"I helped him to his room, cleaned his wounds and gave him something for the pain. I asked what had happened, but he refused to tell. To avoid raising suspicions, I went back to my room. He left again about an hour later. And… I followed him. This time, he went to the Pico power station."

"Where's that?"

"It's an abandoned power plant by the Delaware river up in Fishtown, Northeast of the Ben Franklin bridge. He was inside for about twenty minutes. When he came out, it looked like someone had repeatedly cut into his arms and knees. He was barely conscious, so I drove us back to the motel. I don't think he remembers. I tended to his wounds the best I could, and sat with him till he came through. That… is also when I searched through the shoebox and learned of its content."

"Of course, you did." Madison shot me a glare. "Sorry. What happened when he woke up?"

"He thanked me… then he asked me to leave. I tried to offer my help, I suggested going to the police, but he kept insisting that no one could help him. He left again early this morning…"

"And let me guess, you followed him – again."

"Yes. This time, because I was worried about him. Nothing else. He entered an apartment building on Marble Street. Half an hour later and no sign of him, I got worried, so I went inside and..."

Pausing again, she inhaled heavily. A trembling hand flew to her face. "He'd cut of one of his fingers."

"That's so fucked up," I shrieked in revolt. "Madison, is this true? I swear, if you're messing with me-"

Terrified someone might've overheard us, her head fretfully darted left and right as I spoke. Then she leaned in close to my ear, cutting me off. "I'm telling you the truth!" she vowed. "You can't make this up. He was all covered in blood, and he… it's the Origami Killer, Lisa… he's forcing Ethan to do this," she asserted with a quivering voice.

"And you're sure of this?"

"It _has_ to be! Look, the owner of the address where Ethan cut off his finger is Adrian Baker. He lives up there," she enlightened, pointing north. "It's not much of a lead, but it's all I've got."

This was a lot to digest. Swaying my hips and rubbing my arms to keep the cold at bay, I weighed my options. I thought of Norman, and how he'd react to this. I hadn't spoken to him since yesterday. To give him space, and to not be a distraction while he examined the video surveillance from the area where Shaun disappeared, I'd kept my distance. The last thing I wanted was tension between us now. But I wasn't exactly here by my own initiative. And I wasn't alone. I was merely helping out an acquaintance, scoring heaps of useful information while at it. I thought of Ethan and his son, and how the Origami Killer seemed to have them both in his clutch. My experience over the last few days had taught me that people were more willing to open up to someone who was not a cop. That could be the case for Ethan as well. I'd likely learn more on my own. I thought of Madison, and the ludicrous idea she was planning on setting to life. With anxious eyes, she ceaselessly scrutinized the area, repeatedly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. It dawned on me that she'd called me to ensure that someone with connections to the police knew where she was. Eventually I spoke.

"If you want my help, and discretion, I insist on talking to Ethan. I'd also like to check up on him. I've had medical training."

The reporter agreed to my terms, relief washing over her striking features. "I'll take you to Ethan later. But for now, just help me out here, please."

I put my phone away. "All right, fine. What do you want me to do, exactly?"

"I'll do all the talking; you just wait around the corner. If I'm not out in ten minutes, ring the doc's doorbell and pretend you're selling subscriptions for the Tribune. That'll give me an escape route."

"So, I'm basically your insurance policy in case the doc turns out to be a weirdo or a creep?"

Madison shrugged. I pulled a face and reluctantly agreed to her plan. There was no talking her out of this. She was going to go through with it with or without me. Furthermore, if what she'd told me was true, alerting the police now could not only expedite Shaun's death, but put Ethan in more danger as well. As we headed in the direction of the doc's house, Madison gave me the necessary pamphlets and sign-up forms. I grabbed her sleeve, and locked eyes with her.

"Just be careful, all right."

She cooked a smile and gave me a wink. From behind a shrub, I watched her ascend the set of stairs leading up to the front door. As she rang the doorbell, she flashed me another smile, accompanied by an encouraging nod. The door opened, and I backed out of view until I heard the click from the door shutting. I cautiously emerged from my hiding spot, and snuck up to the red-brick building. Using a pocket mirror to peek inside the closest window, I spotted the back of Madison's head. She was sitting down with her back to the window as an elderly, gray-haired man, the good doc likely, handed her a glass. The thumping in my chest was like a bad omen.

 _Bad idea, Madison!_

At that moment, my bag buzzed! Startled, I scurried out my phone, grateful it was on vibrate. Jane. Even though I'd been away for almost an hour, I switched it off. _Sorry, Jane but this is terrible timing. I'll buy you all the frappes you can drink later, I promise._ Five minutes ticked by, and still no Madison. I paced the lawn, wondering if the ARI had X-ray vision. Six, seven, eight. There was no longer any sight of either of them from the window. I put my ear to the front door. Nothing. No sound. The lump in my stomach grew and I started to feel uneasy. There. Ten minutes had passed. Still no Madison. The dread that something was amiss grew ever so strong. _Ok, Lisa. Keep it together, don't freak out. Stay cool._ I retrieved the papers, and rang the doorbell. The doc answered in less than a minute.

"Good day, sir," I started. "Could I interest you in a subscription for _The American Tribune_?"

"No, thank you. I'm good," he declined in a polite, but cold tone.

"This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer, sir" I continued, holding up the pamphlet, hoping I came off as convincing. There was no sign of Madison. "For just $3.99 you'll get American Tribune straight to your front door for three months."

Steel-cold eyes glared back at me with a patronizing stare, and the doc flashed me one of the most unnerving grins I've seen, only matched by that of Gordi Kramer.

"It says $13.99 on the brochure," he responded in a clammy voice.

 _Oh, snap!_

"Eh, for you sir, it's just $3.99," I declared, praying I hadn't blown it.

"Thanks, but as I said, I'm good," the doc answered dismissively. Still no Madison. I noticed he was wearing a white apron. Why was he wearing an apron? Had he been wearing an apron earlier?

"Now, if you'll excuse me, miss. I'm very busy at the moment."

Before I could respond, he closed the door in my face. Madison was now officially MIA, and _the doc_ was wearing an apron. I didn't like this premise one bit, and the foreboding sense that the journalist was in immediate danger was now chokingly intense. Something had gone terribly wrong, I knew it. There was no time contact the police. Unless I did something _now_ , Madison would not see another tomorrow. The doc hadn't locked the door. As a real-life slasher movie cliché making dumb, life-threatening choices, I made the _ad hoc_ decision of entering the house. Heart pounding against my ribs, I crossed the threshold. The living room was empty. Of people, anyways. I found myself in a room displaying psychedelic wallpapers and ordinary, old-mans-home furniture. The color of choice was red. A goblet was lying on the carpet. On closer inspection, I noticed the fabric around it was soaked and I noted a faint scent of wine. A muffled, but unmistakable scream of pure terror emerged from the basement. _Madison!_ Like an automation, I dashed in the direction of the noise. And barged straight into a fight of life and death.


	15. Chapter 15

Pinned between Dr. Baker and a mobile operating table, a terror-ridden Madison was using her feet to avert getting her chest penetrated by a drilling tool. I grabbed the first item at my disposal, threw it at the attacker, and hit his temple. It wasn't enough to knock him over, but he lost his balance for a moment and staggered, leaving Madison free to leap off the blood-smeared gurney. In her despair to get away she tripped, and I grabbed a hold of her shoulder. A brief moment of eye-contact followed, lasting long enough for us to take note of the mutual fear in our eyes. A nerve-wracking standoff ensued, the sneering doctor on one side of the gurney, me and Madison on the other.

The doctor hurled the running drill at us. To avoid getting hit by the machinery, I darted to the right, flying head-first into a mid-room pillar. The reporter scurried left, and straight into a wall. The doc had the advantage of being close to tabletops packed with various household tools-slash-torture equipment, which he kept throwing at us, followed by incessant, guttural sneers. We tried to dodge the flying contraptions the best we could, using the advantage of being two for all it was worth. One of those round-bladed mini-saws whooshed past me, barely missing my cheek. I knew it was only a matter of time before one of us, or both, would get seriously injured. One had to distract him, leaving the other open to knock him out.

The reporter was closer to the tool-packed table. I kicked the gurney at the raging doctor, effectively knocking him back. Also, directing his attention to me. My plan on using the moveable bench to play ring around the rosy failed miserably when the doctor rammed it into my chest, sending me back-first into the pillar with great force. As he was preoccupied with trying to crush my torso, something hit the back of his head, making him growl. I was freed, but the sheer force against my diaphragm had knocked the air out of my lungs, and I tumbled to the ground, coughing and wheezing.

Staggering to my feet, I was met with the sight of the murderous doctor pinning a helpless Madison against the wall. Diving in their direction, I put my arms around the assailant's neck and pulled back, making him loose his footing. Not the smartest move. Sandwiched between doc and the floor, I hit the back of my head against the concrete. In a haze, I lay defenseless as the doctor put his hands around my throat. Far, far away his sinister laugh reached my fading consciousness.

"Get away from her, psycho!"

The weight lifted off me, and my airways were freed. Rolling away from the screaming, grunting and thumping, I bumped into something. Scrambling noises followed as whatever I hit went flying in all directions. Metal hitting metal. Metal hitting concrete. Piercing screams of horror reached my ears as I blindly crawled on the floor, unable to help. My head was throbbing, my chest aching, my throat burning, and I could see only stars. I tried to feel my way, but kept pushing at metal that kept rolling away. As my vision gradually returned, I saw a blurred image of a purple-brown jacket swinging at a white sheet. Then the doctor came tumbling head-first to the floor.

In an effort to get back on my feet, I put my hand on one of the tabletops caked in old, coagulated blood. The implications made me gag in repulsion, and I fell down on all four, whimpering. A pair of arms locked around my waist. Madison steered me to crate where I sat down, rubbing the back of my head. I tried to focus, but it was all a blur. Had I hit my head that hard? My hand flew to my face. The reporter handed me a familiar item.

"Here. Your glasses."

That explained the blurriness. Vision almost restored, I realized I was surrounded by half-empty paint cans. So that's what I'd run into. Madison shook my shoulder.

"Lisa! Are you all right?"

I made a series of nods. "Man, that was intense!" I sniffled between gasps of shallow breaths. "You?"

"Better than _him_ ," she replied with a snarky tone, putting away the hammer she'd used to knock out the attacker. "I don't know what he used to drug me, but it kicked in almost immediately."

"Most likely ketamine, or some kind of barbiturate. They both kick in, and wear of, rapidly."

Slowly but surely, I regained focus, and the throbbing at the back of my head started to fade. A streak of blood was trickling from the reporter's temple, blending with her dark brown hair.

"I hit him pretty hard. You think he's dead?"

"I don't know," I breathed, rubbing my forehead. I didn't feel nauseous, and the light didn't bother me, so most likely no concussion.

"You check for a pulse," she insisted. "If he has a pulse, we tie him up and call it in anonymously."

I gawped. "Why me?"

"You said you had medical training."

I wanted to object, but she had a point. Sensing my hesitation, she put her hand on my back and leaned in close to my ear. "Don't worry, I got you covered," she whispered.

The brunette grabbed a bundle of rope, and the drill. Crouching behind the lifeless doctor, she aimed the heavy machinery at the back of his head, with her finger assertively on the button. I reached for his neck, feeling the clammy, cold skin. Like straight out of a 90's horror flick, the doc shrieked to life. Sneering and foaming, he grabbed onto my wrist. I shrieked and jerked back as Madison thrusted the rotating drill bit into his cranium. The doc spasmed for a few seconds, then his eyeballs rolled into his sockets, and he collapsed on the floor. Blood and a greyish-white liquid oozed from his skull.

"Shit. _Shit._ SHIT!"

"Lisa! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah fine," I panted, supporting my hands on my knees. "Just a cheap jump scare."

"It's all right." The journalist calmly raised her palms. "It's over now."

"Yep, he's definitely dead this time," I asserted, shooting a glance at the now deceased psycho doc. "That's brain mass."

Madison's brows shot up.

"I assisted on a couple of autopsies during a pathology course when I was an undergrad," I explained.

"Really?"

"Mhmm."

"Well, he was about to do a live autopsy on me."

"Good thing I was here then, eh."

The reporter pulled a gawky smile. "You saved my life."

"And you mine," I accredited.

My eyes wandered the atrocious cellar. Pipes and wires ran across the brick walls and the ceiling with crates and assorted garden equipment stacked against the far end. Paint cans lay strewn on the floor from when I'd rammed into them. There was also a water heater, and two tables packed with various surgical equipment, spark plugs, ropes and assorted tools for cutting, stabbing, prying and sawing. In the middle… a gurney covered in blood. Madison hadn't been the only one. How many had been dragged down here, and tied up to that surgical table to satisfy the doctor's morbid thirst for blood and torture? How many lives had he ended whilst taking pleasure in their screams and pleads?

"What kind of fucked-up psycho was this?"

"The torturing and murdering kind," Madison muttered. "Let's get the hell out of here. This place reeks of death."

"Agree on that."

"Can I borrow this for a second?"

Without waiting for a reply, the brunette snatched my shoulder bag from the basement's floor that I'd dropped during the fight, hasted upstairs and disappeared down a hallway. I rushed after her.

"Madison, what the hell?"

"Hold on for a sec. I'm right behind you."

I impatiently waited by the front door entrance, eager to leave this place for good. Two minutes later, the brunette appeared, and tossed me a much heavier version of my shoulder bag.

"Supplies," she explained. "Ethan's badly injured. They could come in handy."

"Wait, what do we do about Dr. Baker?"

My companion made a shrugging gesture. "Let him rot. It was self-defense."

"We can't do that, Madison. It was self-defense, yes, but not reporting it is still a crime." I thought of how Norman would react if- when he found out, and I'd kept this from him.

"I can't have this hanging over me," I maintained as we headed in the direction of Madison's bike. "Who knows how many innocent souls this psycho has tortured and murdered? The victims deserve justice, and their families' answers. Besides, someone will eventually find the body, and our prints are everywhere in that basement! And I'm already… well, registered."

The brunette frowned. "Your prints are in the system?!"

Avoiding eye contact, I made an affirming shrug. "I've made some mistakes, okay? I'd rather not talk about it. It was years ago, and I learned my lesson."

I was grateful Madison didn't push it. Reaching her motorbike, she strapped on her helmet and handed me a spare one.

"It's not that I don't agree with you, it's just… I made a promise to Ethan. He trusts me. He said that if he goes to the police, if the police get involved at all, his son will die. I don't know if that's true or not, but I can't afford to take any risks. He's already lost one son, Lisa. He can't bear to lose another."

Considering most of the fathers had mysteriously disappeared shortly after an abduction by the Origami Killer, Ethan was most likely in danger as well. I knew I had to compromise if I were to talk to him. This was the only way I could learn more of what was really going on.

"Okay fine," I agreed. "But when Shaun's been found, we go to the police and tell them everything."

The reporter reluctantly agreed.

"Now, let's go see Ethan. Are you fit to drive?"

"Yeah, I think so."

I climbed onto my companion's bike, and held tightly onto her waist. As we sped through the rain-filled streets of Philadelphia, the last hour played on repeat in my mind. Something that at first had seemed innocuous, had quickly turned into a struggle of life and death. Norman was right. There was no telling what could happen during an investigation. I kept asking myself if I'd made the right choices. Was there a 'right' choice here? Had I made the best choices? Or, more importantly… had I made choices that'd lead to the best consequence? What if I hadn't agreed to meet Madison? Hadn't agreed to her plan? Pretend-agreed, but called Norman as soon as she walked in that door? What if I hadn't entered doc's house? The likely outcome for all of these was that Madison would've died. Then again, I could've died. I may not have made the wises choices, but at least we were both alive, and on our way to Ethan. That had to count for something.

We stopped at _CrossRoad motel_ , a two-star accommodation at the heart of Rittenhouse. Outside room 207, the reporter came to a halt. "Before we go in, there's something you should know," she whispered, fumbling with her hands. "I haven't exactly… told Ethan that I'm a journalist. Yet."

I rolled my eyes so far back in my skull it physically hurt. " _Of course_ you haven't."

"I told him that I'm a photographer. Which is, a semi-truth."

"Madison!"

"He'd never trust me if he knew," the brunette insisted. "I'll tell him, when the time is right. But I can't… _we_ can't help him now if he knows the truth. He'd dismiss me immediately. Just… don't say anything. Please?"

I shrugged. This was between her and Ethan anyways. Opening the door, Madison entered first. I followed close behind.

"Ethan?"

The motel room looked pretty much as I'd imagined. The predominant color was brown. The walls, the bedsheets, the curtains, the lamps, the furniture… all in 50 shades of brown. Sand-colored walls displayed the shabby-motel-kind of cheap artwork. The air smelled of old wallpaper and dirty laundry. The miserable individual hunching on the bed was a mere shadow of the man I'd seen at the police station two days ago. He was wearing the exact same outfit as then, only dirtier. And littered with spots of blood. Upon seeing me, he tensed, panic flashing over his glassy eyes.

"Hi, Ethan. I'm Lisa."

"It's okay, we can trust her," Madison assured. "She… saved my life."

Clutching his side, the battered man tried to rise, but sunk back down, whimpering. He had ghostly pale skin and bloodshot, baggy eyes. Minimal subcutaneous fat suggested poor nutritional intake over a prolonged period of time. Madison asked for my shoulder bag from where she retrieved pill boxes, disinfectants, ointments, gauzes and bandages she'd stolen from the doc.

"It's okay, Ethan," I reassured, calmly approaching him. "I'm not police, okay. I'm a friend of Madison, and I just want to look at your hand. Can I do that?"

He shifted, and glanced at the brunette sorting through the med supplies. She gave an assuring nod. Ethan hesitantly stretched out the haphazardly bandaged hand, allowing me to unwrap the binding and examine the amputated finger. To my surprise, the stump looked remarkably clean-cut, and there was no sign of infection. Yet.

"How did you managed to go through with this?" I asked, baffled.

A pained expression washed over his ash-white face. "I did it for Shaun," he mumbled. "He's all that matters to me now. I'd do anything for him."

"When did you do this, and what kind of cutting tool did you use?"

It pained me to force the injured and grief-struck man to relieve recent painful and traumatic events, but I needed to know. Ethan remained calm, and spoke in a low-key tone.

"It was early this morning, shortly before eight. I used a butcher's knife. I sterilized both the finger and the blade. And I cauterized the wound afterwards."

I checked my watch. Almost six hours. "Good thinking, Ethan," I commended. "I can't see any sign of infection as of now, but that doesn't mean it won't get infected later. You should see a doctor." Madison joined in expressing her concern, but Ethan abruptly cut us off.

"NO! I'm not seeing anybody," he asserted. "Look, I'm grateful for your concern, both of you. But this is my fight. You should both leave before you get hurt."

"We can't leave you like this!" Madison insisted. "At least, let us help you with those wounds."

She handed him Vicodin for the pain, and left me to pick out the antibiotics. Prophylactic antibiotics were undeniably a good idea. It was, however, a while since I'd taken microbiology, and I didn't feel like playing hit-or-miss with Ethan's life. _Think Lisa, think._ The most likely microbes to infect the cut were _strep_ , _staph_ or _E. coli_ , meaning Ethan would need something that was effective against both Gram-positive and Gram-negative bacteria. Moreover, because of his poor general condition due to a manifold of physical trauma and possibly malnutrition, he was at risk of attracting opportunistic infections. I went over the labels. _That's for fungal infections, this is just for urinary tract infections…_

I was left with four boxes. Four different, broad-spectrum antibiotics, used to treat a variety of bacterial infections ranging from UTI to cholera, but also with their set of side-effects. Four choices. Ethan's frail body could only handle one. _Ampicillin_ had a vide application and only mild side-effects, but could they batter a possible septicemia in the making? _Chloramphenicol_ , potent enough to kill most bacteria and known to be very effective against the usual suspects, but comes with some pretty nasty side-effects. Last two were _TMP/SMX_ and _Ciprofloksacin_. Kills most germs, also not without side-effects, but milder _._ Staring at the labels, trying to remember lab work from years ago, the names swirled before my eyes, blending into one another. Decisions, decisions.

"Here, give him these."

I handed the brunette one of the boxes, hoping I'd made a good choice. Ethan swallowed the pills, and with a gritting expression, removed his clothes, revealing a skinny figure covered in numerous lashes, cuts, bruises and burns.

 _Holy shit, Ethan._

Every cell in my body was screaming that he should get looked at by a professional medic, but I knew from his previous reaction that insisting would be futile.

"How the hell did you…? I knew about the finger, but these wounds… man!"

"Crawling over… broken glass, stumbling through a network of… electric… wires, and a car accident. After driving against traffic for five miles… in less than five minutes. On the bloody highway 95."

 _That was him yesterday?!_

As me and Madison cleansed and dressed his many wounds, Ethan recapped the accident that had claimed his first son's life. A busy, but lovely Saturday afternoon a little over two years ago, Ethan and his family were out shopping. Shaun's brother, Jason, got separated from the rest of the family in the crowd. He'd followed some guy he believed to be Ethan, and ended up next to a trafficked road, where he lost grip on the balloon Ethan had bought him earlier. Ethan's last memory of his oldest son was Jason running into traffic to catch up with the disappearing string. With no concern for his own safety, Ethan had dived in between Jason and the moving traffic. Ethan survived. Jason did not. Ever since that day, the poor man had blamed himself for his oldest son's death.

"It's my fault Jason's dead," he sobbed. "He'd still be alive if I'd been looking out for him, as a father should. It's my fault for buying him that damn balloon. And if Shaun dies, that'll be my fault as well."

Madison sat down next to him and tenderly stroked his chin.

"It was an accident, Ethan. You can't keep blaming yourself."

The gesture was so soft and loving. There was more than just concern in her eyes. She was right. It was a freak accident. It could've happened to anyone. Ethan's guilt was understandable, but he'd have to let go, lest he'd suffer a complete mental breakdown. I tried to come up with some words of comfort. More than anything, I wanted to assure him that everything would be all right. But I could make no such promise. There was nothing I could say that'd alleviate the hell he was going through.

"Shaun is… has become a very solitary kid," Ethan continued. "He's very close to his mother, but with me… we're drifting apart. I know he's disappointed in me. I haven't been much of a dad lately."

I crouched down next to the beaten father, and placed my hand on his.

"Ethan, what _really_ happened at the park?"

Swallowed hard, he looked at Madison, who gave another encouraging nod.

"The truth is, I don't remember," he conceded with a pained expression. "After the accident, I was in a coma for months. Ever since I came through, I've been plagued with memory loss. It can last from a couple of minutes to a few hours. When I recover… often I'll be someplace else… with no idea of how I got there. I'm scared I'm losing my mind. Maybe I'm schizo or something."

"Whoa there, Tyler Durden. You're talking about dissociative identity disorder, not schizophrenia," I retorted, getting side-eyed from Madison. _Yeah, not important right now._

"Tyler who?"

"Never mind. Ethan, you _have_ to go to the police," I tried. "They'll believe you, I swear."

"No, I absolutely cannot. You see, he's watching me." Limping up to his jacket, he pulled out a cell phone, showing us pictures of himself in the rain, holding a small box, likely the shoebox Madison had mentioned, quite possibly from the Origami Killer himself.

"This is me on my way to the police yesterday," Ethan informed, his shaky hand made the pictures blurry. "When I was less than two hundred yards away from the station, the box started vibrating. I looked inside and it was this phone, with pictures of me."

A phone! Susan had talked about a phone. I'd completely forgotten. I looked at Madison, who seemed as surprised as I was. Maybe this had taken place when the reporter was at home, packing.

"Then he sent me this…" He pressed the forward button and my heart sank at the sight of little Shaun Mars trapped under a grate. Immersed in water, and surrounded by concrete, his tiny hands were desperately pushing against the grid.

"He's watching my every move," Ethan shrieked. "If I go to the police, Shaun will die. If I don't do exactly as he says, Shaun will die."

Twenty-four-hour surveillance or not, it was how Ethan felt it. Sinking down on the bed again, he finally disclosed what had happened when Shaun was taken two days ago.

"When the carousel started moving, I blacked out, and I didn't come through until two hours later, four blocks away from the park. What kind of father leaves his child alone… if I'd been looking after him, Shaun wouldn't…"

Overwhelmed by grief and self-blame, his voice cracked. Squeezing his eyes shut, he covered his face in his hands, quietly sobbing. Madison sat down next to him, and stroked his back.

"Jason… Shaun… _I'm sorry._ "

I was aching so hard for the man and the nightmare he was going through, my chest felt like it was on fire. Eight dead children were a tragedy. Add to that, grisly trials and accompanied suffering the fathers had to endure… grieving mothers left behind. Lauren. Susan. This case was getting more and more gruesome with every new piece of information. I joined them on the bedside where we sat in silence for a few minutes, quietly crying. When the streams running down Ethan's cheeks thinned, I continued the questioning. Every detail mattered if we were going to have any chance at beating the Origami Killer at his own, sick game.

"Ethan, how did he first contact you?"

He nodded towards the shoebox resting on a small table next to the bed. Inside were four sheets of different colors showing signs of being curled up numerous times.

"Look for a white paper with a poem. It arrived by mail early yesterday morning."

My eyes skimmed the ominous and disturbing content.

 _When the parents came home from church,  
all their children were gone._

 _They searched and called for them,  
they cried and begged,  
but it was all to no avail._

 _The children have never been seen again._

"I have no idea what it means," the battered father acknowledged. "There was also a ticket to a luggage locker in Lexington Station. That's where I got the shoebox."

"When was this mailed?" I asked.

"I don't know. I didn't think about checking."

"Was it local, or from out of town?"

"I… have no idea. God, I'm so _damn_ useless."

"No, you're not. What else was in this box besides the phone?" Even if I did know about the contents, better not reveal Madison's snooping.

"A memory card with a video of Shaun and five origami figures that looked like animals."

"What kind of animals?"

"First one, a dog or a bear, I think. The second one was a butterfly, and the third a lizard. I've already opened them. The papers are in the shoebox." He showed us the unfolded ones that he kept in his jacket pocket. One looked like a dolphin or a fish and the other like a mouse.

"After I opened the first one, I got a text asking how far I was willing to go to save someone I loved," he explained with a wobbly voice. "You see, each represents a trial. When I complete the trial, I get some letters to the address where Shaun is in return. The last one's tonight. Then I'll get the final letters. After Shaun's safe, I'll turn myself in. But until then, the police can't know anything. I'm begging you, both of you, no police until tomorrow morning."

"When tonight? Where?"

He didn't reply. Clutching the side of his abdomen, he grunted in pain. As he laid down to rest, me and Madison examined the unfolded origami. The one marked 1 was a brown, stained and crumbled thick sheet with instructions to be opened on Wednesday, October 5th between 8 and 10 am. There was a message written in bold letters with an old-school typewriter. _ARE YOU PREPARED TO SHOW COURAGE TO SAVE YOUR SON? JOE'S GARAGE AND PARKING LOT 4988 Roosevelt Avenue, Lexington._

The sheet marked 2 was made out of glued-together twenty-dollar bills. It said to be opened after 7 pm, October 5th, asking Ethan if he was ready to suffer to save his son, with instructions to head to the abandoned power plant. Paper number three had been unfolded this morning, at 6 am. In bold letters, it asked Ethan if he was prepared to make a sacrifice to save his son.

"Sacrifice a body part," Madison muttered.

"Hey, Ethan at the power plant yesterday...?" As I turned, I noticed to my bafflement Shaun's father was nowhere to be seen. Madison was quick to notice the same.

"Where's Ethan?"

The door was ajar. Hasting outside, we caught a glimpse of a car speeding out of the parking lot. "No!" Madison cried, making a beamline for her motorcycle. "Hurry! We got to catch up to him."

"Wait-"

When she reached the bike, she let out a piercing shriek. By the time I'd caught up with her, she'd already searched through her pockets and seat compartment.

"My keys! They're gone. He took my keys!"

She handed me a small note she'd found in her jacket.

 _I'm sorry Madison. But I have to do this alone._


	16. Chapter 16

"No, no, no, _dammit_!"

Madison stomped, kicked and cursed. My calming approach was to no avail. She pulled out her phone, and clicked a speed dial button.

"Yes, can I get a taxi to _Cross_ Road motel…"

I enclosed my hand around her arm, and tugged to get her attention. "Mad, chill. We can't afford to act irrational. I want Ethan and Shaun safe too, but we have to approach this logically."

She gawped at me. "Logically? For God's sake, Lisa. We drove him away, and this psychopath, this child murderer is toying with him! There's _nothing_ logic to this," the reporter ranted. I let go of her.

"He just had him cut off a finger. What's next? An arm? A leg? Kill himself? Kill someone else? I _have_ to find him, he's... he's destroying himself."

Madison's hand rushed through her pixie cut. Miniscule ponds were assembling on her lower eyelids. It was now painstakingly obvious there was more than just a story on her mind.

"Oh, Ethan? Why?" she shrieked, her brittle voice cracking.

From the corner of my eye I spotted the receptionist ogling us from inside the motel lobby. I didn't like the look on his face one bit. I steered the distraught journalist to a café nearby. A trembling hand covered her face as the waitress brought our drinks.

"It's not just about a story, is it?"

Unable to hold back the tears, she shook her head. "I don't expect you to understand," she sniveled, wiping her cheek. "I-I've only known him for a couple of days, but what I feel is real."

"I'm not here to judge," I assured, placing my hand on hers. "Look, Mad. Ethan brought with him the last two origami. We have no idea where he's gone off to. But he's not going to return to the motel, or to his apartment. The best way to go from here is to track down the Origami Killer. That's the key to find and save both Ethan and Shaun."

The brunette nodded.

"I know someone we can trust. I'll talk to him and we'll take it from there."

Madison frowned. "No, I promised Ethan no police." She retracted her hand, and began fumbling with the untouched coffee mug. "I have a lead. When the doctor of torture and death had me tied up, he told me who's renting that apartment on Marble Street."

I cooked a brow.

"I didn't say anything because I didn't want you to get any more involved than you already are." She paused, leaning back. "For… various reasons."

"It's a bit late for that, isn't it?"

"Which is why I'm telling you now. The apartment where Ethan cut of his finger is being used by a guy named Paco. He works at a nightclub called The Blue Lagoon. I'm gonna pay him a visit tonight."

"Absolutely not!" I hissed. "My God, we could've died back there, Madison! We _have_ to go to the police, like, _right now_. This is _way_ too dangerous!"

I thought yet again of Norman's words. Neither me nor Madison had the proper training, and I'd recently learned the hard way there was no telling what could happen or who we might run into.

"We can't do this on our own, Madison," I maintained with a stern tone. "It's too dangerous. Besides, none of the other fathers have come out of this alive, which is another reason why our best shot at saving both Ethan and Shaun _is_ to go to the police."

The brunette swirled the mug the other direction, creating a mini-whirlpool out of the warm drink, quietly listening to my words.

"There's an FBI agent assisting in the case. His name is Norman Jayden. He's discrete, skilled and an expert in criminal psychology. We can trust him."

"I think I've seen him around at the station. Early to mid-thirties, grey suit, brown hair, blue eyes?"

"He's 34. And his eyes are green. Otherwise, spot on."

"You seem to know him well."

"We've… worked together on some occasions, I, eh…"

The reporter responded to my rambling with a hint of a smile, which made me blush ever so slightly. Then she lowered her eyes, and her face went somber. "I'm glad you came with me today. I don't know what would've happened if… I-I didn't mean for you to get in danger, I-"

"The important thing is that we both got out of it alive and well. Relatively speaking."

Madison nodded in agreement. "You think the doc is… _was_ the Origami Killer?"

I shook my head.

"Yeah, me neither."

"The killer we're looking for has a profile and M.O. suggesting remorse, which doesn't fit the doctor's sadistic behavior," I elaborated. Ironic how in our search for one serial killer, we'd run into another.

"Learned that from the FBI agent?" The reporter questioned, shooting me a sassy glance. I hid my gawky smile behind the near empty cup, grateful my companion subsequently changed the subject.

"I have to go to my apartment anyways and get my spare key. You do what you have to do."

"Look around the parking lot first," I suggested. "He might've thrown your keys around here somewhere."

"You think so?"

I shrugged. "It's what I would've done. I have to go as well. I'll call you later. And promise me, no more amateur detective mode."

On the bus back to the precinct for yet another afternoon at the lab, I switched on my phone to texts and voicemails from Jane. After replying, I resumed staring absentmindedly out the window. As the downpour picked up its intensity, the crowd picked up its pace. I thought of Bornstein & Bornstein's article ' _The pace of life'_ , correlating city size and quality of the inhabitants' daily lives _,_ such as the mathematical relationship between pedestrian locomotion and population density. The people of Philadelphia, with its 1.5 million inhabitants, should have an average walking speed of about 2.8 feet per second. Clearly, they'd not taken heavy rain into account.

The rainfall's intensity was also inversely proportional to the time Ethan's son had left. Tomorrow morning, an early bird would stumble upon Shaun's body with an orchid on his chest and an _orig-_ I straightened. In a sea of umbrellas, an image of a carefully folded paper in a tiny hand flashed before me. A gift of apology from their murderer, representing a canine guardian and companion. The orchid, a symbol of innocence, reflecting how the killer saw his victims. Norman had referred to them as an image, a symbol. The killer sees his victims as innocent. He even goes to the extent of covering them up with mud, to make them anonymous. But the fathers… These sick, fucked-up trials. Ethan… Five animal-shaped origami, each representing a trial. Had the other fathers also…? Most of them _had_ disappeared… My skin started to prickle as that elusive piece of the puzzle finally came within reach. As a blow to the mind, it hit me. It was never about the children. The revelation made every inch of my tiny frame tingle. It wasn't the boys he was after. It was their fathers.

Bursting to deliver this information, I sprinted to Norman's office as soon as I got to the precinct. Without waiting for a reply to my fervent knocking, I rushed into the undersized office, blabbering about Ethan, the trials and Susan's mystery phone to a confused and baffled FBI agent.

"Don't you see," I continued, pacing and gesturing like mad. "He's abducting these boys to hurt the fathers. He's putting them through sadistic trials to prove that they love their sons. I don't know why, but that's what's going on. And when the children die, it's because the fathers failed the tests, or didn't go through with them. It makes perfect sense with what we know of the killer's psychological profile and M.O."

Rising from his chair, and finally removing the VR-shades, the FBI profiler looked at me with a blend of doubt and bemusement. And disappointment.

"Wait, you've gone off investigating by yourself?" he charged, his eyes narrowing. "After we talked about… you promised me you wouldn't… do you realize how dangerous this can be? Why didn't you contact me first?"

 _Yes, Norman. I've just learned the hard way how dangerous it can be._

"I am coming to you now. And I wasn't alone," I countered defensively. "I had a friend with me the whole time."

"That is not what I meant."

"I know what you meant. And I'm sorry, but just hear me out. Ethan's in grave danger. He's already hurt himself more than once…"

"Right now, my concern is you," the FBI agent reprimanded. "What friend? Your colleague?"

"No, not Jane. Her name is Madison, she's a journalist who works at the-"

"What _?!_ "

I realized my mistake the very moment I uttered the word _journalist_. Norman's mouth dropped in disbelief, and his eyes widened.

"Is that whom you were speaking to after the press conference last week?"

A couple of bewildered seconds followed. Then it struck me. The press conference last Monday, on the day Jeremy's body was found. Right after we'd first met. I'd briefly talked to Madison afterwards. He'd noticed that? Mistaking my shock for conformation, his eyes morphed into a scowling glare.

"You've been in contact with a journalist this whole time? Is this the real reason you've been insisting on coming with me? Just so you could learn as much as possible for your friend's article about the Origami Killer?"

He swallowed hard, and pressed his lips together. A trembling hand rushed through his bronze hair.

"I can't believe I fell for… last night… I'm such an idiot," he muttered to himself.

"It's not like that Norman, I swear," I pled. "Look, I've barely spoken to Madison at all before today."

It was the truth, but I had a hard time convincing even myself as I was painstakingly aware of how contradictory and doubtful it all sounded. As expected, the FBI agent still seemed utterly convinced he'd been duped.

"So, you have a _'friend'_ who happen to be a journalist, whom you've barely spoken to, until today. I'm sorry Lisa, but this doesn't add up."

The hurt in his voice, combined with the grim realization that I was about to demolish everything that had been building up between us was crushing. "It is the truth," I insisted, desperately wanting him to believe me. "If I'd been just using you, why would I tell you about Madison at all, or any of this?"

My heart pounded against my ribs. Not in a dopamine-induced feelgood-way, but the angsty kind. The FBI agent went quiet. Rubbing his chin, he turned away to conceal his trembling hands. When he eventually faced me, his face had softened ever so slightly, as if he wanted to give me the benefit of the doubt, though his eyes remained scornful.

"Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

"No, I swear!"

In that exact moment, Ira burst into the room without knocking, and shoved a paper in my face.

"Yo, Lisa. Finally got them results from that blue powder you asked me to run yesterday. It's an experimental anti-hallucinogen called Triptocaine, and it's used for-"

The timing couldn't have been worse. My eyes widened, and I instantly went cold.

* * *

 _Ethan stood in front of an anonymous, wooden door, numb from the inhumane demand of trial four. To save his son, he would have to take a life. A man named Brad Silver. He had no idea who this person was, or why him. He didn't want to know the person's name. He didn't want to know anything about him. Didn't want to look him in the eyes. He wanted his victim nameless, faceless, soulless…_

 _He'd kept the shoebox-handgun hidden from the two women in his room earlier. Retrieving the firearm weighing down his jacket, he checked the magazine for the tenth time, removed the safety, hid the weapon behind his back and knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, harder this time. A man in his late forties opened, with more grey hairs than black. He looked like he'd just woken up, not just because of his drowsy, but hostile expression, but also because of the slippers and untied robe, revealing an old, washed-out band T-shirt. Nothing went according to plan. Instead of drawing the handgun at his target, said target yelled at him for trying to score at his home, and slammed the door shut. A shivering wreck, with ruffled, unwashed clothes, pale complexion, and baggy eyes, he'd mistaken Ethan for a drug addict yearning for a fix. This guy was a dealer. His actions put people's lives in danger. Young people. Kids. He knocked again, determined. The door reopened, and the drug supplier told Ethan to sod off. Thinking of Shaun, Ethan pointed the firearm at the man's chest. The angry tone dissipated, and with a stuttering voice, he tried to convince Ethan to lower the weapon. He offered money, drugs, whatever he wanted. When that didn't work, he held up a picture of two girls. His daughters, Sarah and Cindy. They were the same age as Shaun and what Jason would've been… had he lived. The oldest girl was wearing a green 'Pirate Kid' T-shirt. Jason had one like it. It was- had been his favorite T-shirt. Ethan knocked the photo out of the sobbing man's hand._

 _The dealer begged for his life, cried that he wanted to see his two little girls again. Not able to bear another plea, Ethan gave him a fierce blow to the head with the gun's grip. He now lay unconscious on the floor. The hairs at the back of his head got moist, and a small, crimson red pond was gathering on the floor ever so slowly. With unsteady hands, Ethan aimed the pistol at the dealer's head, and moved his index from the guard to the trigger. He felt sick to his stomach, but he'd sworn to follow every command to the point. He hadn't gotten this far to back out now. He had to do this. For Shaun. His boy was worth so much more than the life of a lousy, arrogant jerk of a dope dealer. Diverting his eyes, he counted. One-two-three. No go. He put the gun away, and fell to his knees next to the unconscious man, sobbing. He couldn't bring himself to do it. This man was an asshole, a criminal, a drug-dealing scum. But also, a father. And Ethan was no murderer. He had no right to end this man's life and doom two gleeful girls to grow up fatherless._

 _An idea sparked. If he could convince Shaun's abductor that he'd completed the trial, he'd get the letters. He spilled some blood, making sure the mini-pond on the floor grew to a clearly visible blood spatter, snapped a picture and sent it as a reply to the text about the trials. It worked. He was told to check the grip. Another memory card. A short video of his only living child, almost submerged in water. His eyes were glassy. His little boy was drifting away. With the new letters, he almost had the full address. 852 _h_ o…. Roose_elt… something. He knew the bluff wouldn't last. Sooner or later, the abductor would know. But he only needed to buy a little bit of time. The last trial was in 12 hours. Then, he'd have the full address to Shaun's whereabouts._

* * *

You didn't need to be a profiler to see I was burning with shame and regret. Not daring to look in the FBI agent's direction, my eyes remained glued to the paper in the biochemists' hand. Oblivious Ira kept rambling on, but he might as well be speaking Klingon. Norman, who still was in the room, had yet to respond to Ira inadvertently revealing I'd gone behind the FBI agent's back. I wish he'd say something. Give me anger, disappointment, hurt. Anything but this deafening silence. Finally, my colleague caught on that something was amiss.

"Yo, did I come at a bad time?"

 _You have no idea._

"Norman, I-"

When I finally dared to look at him, what met me was the exact blend of disbelief, disenchantment and betrayal I'd expected. Still, it broke my heart.

"I have to go," he said in a curt tone, and swept past us.

"Norman, I'm sorry!" I screeched at his back. He didn't halt, or hesitate. He gave me no chance to explain.

"Sorry girl," Ira comforted.

"Ira just… can you please leave me alone?"

I didn't hear his reply. Devastated, I sank down against the wall as the door slammed shut behind me. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, idiot_! I'd betrayed Norman's trust and ruined everything. Before it had even begun. Tears running down my cheeks, I crouched my knees under my chin and wagged back and forth in a fetal position, gasping for air as uncontrollable sobbing commenced. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so gutted and heartbroken.

I don't know how long I'd been sitting on the floor bawling into my palms when I heard knocking on the door.

"Lisa, are you all right? Can I come in?"

The concern in Jane's voice alleviated some of the crushing sensation in my chest. The streams from my eyes slowed down and I regained some composure.

"Lisa, please answer me. I'll leave you alone if you want. Just let me know you'll be okay."

I dried off tears and snot, and smeared makeup all over my sleeve. And face, probably. _Lovely._ I staggered to my feet, and focused on taking deep breaths.

"One moment, I'm coming."

I'd permanently ruined my chance to be with Norman. I'd snooped in his private matters, and he was now fully convinced I'd only been using him to obtain information for Madison. Quite possibly, he'd never speak to me again. And I couldn't blame him. But I refused to sit and indulge in self-pityness anymore. Shaun Mars was out there somewhere, alone, cold and petrified, neck deep in water. Literally. And I would do everything in my power to save him. Ethan would not lose another son. Not if I could help it. Saving Shaun, that was all that mattered now.

I opened the door, and earned an instant embrace from my friend, re-opening the sob-canal. With trembling voice, I told her _everything_.


	17. Chapter 17

I left the unfolded origami, together with the strange poem and a note regarding Susan's phone on Norman's desk. My index trailed the counter, wondering if I'd ever see him again. Flashback to doing this exact motion eight days ago as we gracelessly stumbled through our first attempt at small talk, somehow ending up with a **tête-à-tête** at the local coffee house. A bittersweet smile formed on my lips as I savored the memory. Daylight emerging from windows under the ceiling took me back to when I found him crouched up against the wall. All alone and subjugated by withdrawal, he'd been shivering like a lost and scared child. I'd reached out to him. And now as he was finally reaching out to me, I'd pushed him away. The memories tore through me. I'd do anything to go back in time, for the ability to make different choices. Better choices. With better consequences.

Jane put her hand on my shoulder. "Hey, you ready to go?"

"Yeah," I sighed, shoving Ira's report in my bag.

My coworker had her arm wrapped around me as we left the small office. I caught a glimpse of Blake ogling in our direction.

"Trouble in paradise?" The middle-aged lieutenant grinned.

 _Yeah fuck you too, Blake._

"That red-haired, Irish guy was looking for you. I told him he'd find you in Jayden's 'office'."

I shot him a glare, which resulted in the lieutenant's smirk growing even bigger. He chuckled to himself, turned to face a tall, middle-aged man in a beige trench coat, but proceeded to make a 180 spin as if he'd just remembered something.

"Oh by the way, your sweetheart _Norman_ wanted you to stay put here."

"I'll take her down," Jane interjected, scowling at the gloating police veteran leaning over the water cooler. "C'mon, hun. He's not worth it."

Was it out of worry, or did he merely want me out of the way? In any case, it made the memory of last night even more agonizing. Down at the breakroom Jane made us tea and did her best to keep my spirit up. Tears still looming behind my eyelids, I clutched the warm mug as I stared at Ira's report, reading the words without taking in the content.

"Look, I haven't been a good friend lately. I should've told you I was meeting up with Madison."

"It's okay. I'd most likely tried to talk you out of it, and… it was pretty reckless, yeah, but all things considered, I'm glad you were there for her."

"Thanks, Jane. For not bitching at me."

"Pfft, scolding never lead to any good. If there's one thing I learned from father dear, it's that!"

Though I didn't know the details, Jane and her father used to have a difficult relationship. Had I been selfish for not asking her about it? I didn't want to push, wanted her to open up at her own terms.

"That's a story for another time," my colleague stated, as if reading my mind. "Look, I'm really sorry about agent Jayden." I pressed my lips together, and squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the tears back. I could hear my coworker shifting, moving closer.

"Hey, don't act like it's all over," she consoled, stroking my back. "When Shaun's been found and the Origami Killer's been caught, talk to him. Work things out."

"It's too late," I garbled, fumbling with the paper. "I totally blew it. Trust is a fragile thing."

 _In particular when it comes to reticent introverts like Norman._

Jane made a huffing sound, and a pout formed on her lips as her mind searched for phrases of encouragement or comfort. Her mere presence was, however, a thousand times more helpful than any words, no matter how ingenious or genuine.

"It's stupid, really," I sniveled. "Two weeks ago, I didn't even know who this guy was."

My companion offered a sympathetic smile and tilted her head. "Doesn't work that way, hun. Rational thoughts and love mix like oil and water."

I let out a snort and cooked a grin. "I like the analogy."

"What does it say?" she queried, hinting at Ira's report.

"It's some new fad-drug that Norm-, eh, agent Jayden's been using. It's... the real reason as to why he collapsed the other day. It's listed as an anti-hallucinogen called Triptocaine. When insufflated, it'll give the user a short-lived high similar to cocaine. And of course, it's equally addictive."

Jane pressed her palms together and put the tip of her fingers against her lips, uttering a _hm_ -sound.

"How did he get addicted to anti-hallucinogens any ways?" I mused.

"I think I may have an answer to that. Remember the other day when-"

Before she could finish her thought, Gabs interrupted us to inform me that Perry wanted a word with me. Alone. I could not possibly fathom what for, but here was my chance to tell him about Ethan and the trials. Plunking the empty mug on the table, I headed back up. Thankfully, lieutenant Assjerk was nowhere to be seen. Charlene told me to go straight in.

"Ah. There you are, young lady. You know, one of the greatest presidents in our country's proud history, Abraham Lincoln, once said: _three things are certain in life. Death, taxes and people's thoughtlessness_ ," the captain 'enlightened' in his usual, raucous voice as I entered his office.

"That's not what he said," I refuted. "He only mentioned death and taxes, nothing else. But I get the sentiment. Personally, I prefer _nothing is infinite but the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not too sure about the universe._ "

The elderly man circled his desk and fumbled with his tie-knot. He seemed mildly annoyed at my retort but held firm. "Ahem, my point being…"

"Yeah, why don't we quit the rhetorics and get to the point?" I was in no mood to play mind-games.

"Very well. With the way you keep running off, you're about to lose your position here, missy."

His words hit me like a blow to the jaw. The room started spinning, and I could feel my skin go cold again. This was the last thing I needed right now.

"It's come to my attention that you've left the police station on more occasions than one over the last few days, and you've failed to offer a valid explanation for your absence," the captain relayed to my gawking expression. "At best, I'll demand an extension of your stay. Worst case… I'll ask Dr. Mortiz to invalidate your internship."

 _Well, this was certainly turning out to be one helluva shitty day._

"Wait, you can't just do this," I insisted. "Not without a written warning first."

The captain arrogantly raised his chin and narrowed his eyes.

"This isn't true," I objected. "I-I have left the precinct during work hours a couple of times lately, yes. But I've given notice every time. And I've worked overtime to catch up every step of the way. I've completed all of my tasks. Just ask Dr. Mortiz. Or Dr. Lavigna."

"Do I also have to remind you that distracting a federal agent during an ongoing investigation is highly inappropriate."

"What!? I haven't distr-…" No, forget it. I would not apologize for my heart. Straining to remain calm, I locked eyes with the unfriendly officer. "Captain Perry, I can assure you with absolute certainty that the investigation has been our sole-... our number one focus at all times."

The last word was a mere whisper as I felt my voice was about to give in. I had intuitively raised my hands to act as a defensive barrier between me and the police chief. The captain glared back, and lowered his forehead. He seemed unconvinced. Or unimpressed. Or both.

"It still doesn't excuse the fact that you've left your place several times during work hours lately, today included," he maintained, menacingly striding in my direction.

"Exactly how has this come to your attention may I ask?"

"I'd rather not give out names…"

 _Carter Blake!_ By reflex, I rolled my eyes. My blood was boiling. The captain had asked to see me alone because he knew Gabs would've stuck up for me. He'd denied me the right to representation and support from my supervisor in order to effortlessly put me down. Coward. I wanted to yell and scream, but no good would come out of that. Putting on my best poker face, I forced every cell in my body to maintain eye-contact with the captain.

"Is there anything else?"

"No, you may be excused now. But make sure you stay at your place from here on out."

 _Sure, go ahead and talk to me like I'm a small child that doesn't know any better._

As I exited the office, I had to put all my effort into not slamming the door. I headed straight for the cooler and poured myself a cup of cold water.

"Is everything all right, dear?" Perry's secretary asked my back.

Taking a zip, I placed myself at the side of her desk, rubbing my temple with trembling fingers. At the other end of the foyer, Blake was shouting at a group of officers.

"No Charlene, I am not okay."

"I'm sorry to hear that, dear."

Despite the sentiment, she still kept a professional distance with her formal tone. Blake's raucous voice growing louder made me sharpen my ears.

"I want every available cop assigned to locate Ethan Mars," the lieutenant barked at the squad of trailing minions as he rushed to his desk. "Notify all agencies. I want a man outside his house day and night. Stake out that run-down motel he's been holed up in, train stations, airports, bus terminals..."

 _What?! Why?_

"Yes, Ethan Mars is the Origami Killer."

My head started throbbing, and my blood turned to ice. The lieutenant made a beamline for the exit, yelling over his shoulder for Ash to get moving. I scurried up to Blake's partner while he was still at his desk, gathering his gear.

"Ash, what is this? What's going on? Ethan Mars, really?"

"Not now," he snapped. I wasn't going to give up that easily.

"Talk to me, please," I pled. I placed my hand on his arm, and lightly squeezed to achieve eye contact.

"Ash?"

The officer in the customary, grey shirt hesitated. His eyes scanned the hall to make sure neither Blake nor any of the other officers were still around. Still enclosing his arm, my thumb slowly moved back and forth over his sleeve.

"All right. But this stays between us!" he demanded. His face an angry red, he leaned in close.

"Yesterday evening, we received reports of strange activities at an abandoned power plant up north. Witnesses reported seeing two individuals leave the area in a hurry around 8.15 pm. One of them matched Mars' description. A couple of officers went to check it out, and found traces of Mars' blood both outside and inside the building. They also found the body of Jeremy Bowles' father. Blake tried, in vain, to get a hold of Mr. Mars all yesterday. Kind of suspicious, don't you think?"

"Not really," I interjected. "He sounds more like a victim than a perpetrator. Maybe there's more to the Origami Killer than we previously thought. Ever noticed the fathers also seem to go missing?"

"Yeah? Okay, what about this. Blake called Mars' ex-wife. And get this. After his first kid died, Mars got the habit of wandering off for no good reason. According to Mrs. Mars, he could be gone for hours. When she asked him about it, he conveniently claimed he couldn't remember anything."

He shot a glance in the direction of Charlene's desk, and inched close to my ear. "A few minutes ago, the receptionist of a tattered, run-down motel, the kind of place you only go to if you really want to hide from someone, reported that a man looking exactly like Ethan Mars had checked in yesterday morning under a false name. About an hour ago, he ran away at full speed. Blake's convinced that Mars's the Origami Killer himself, or collaborating with him," he finished triumphantly.

"Wait, this doesn't prove anything!" I opposed.

"Maybe not, but Mars sure is acting suspicious. Why does he try to stay hidden, hm?"

"There could be a million reasons for him to-"

"Had it come from that IVY-league FBI-agent you've been tailing, you'd be all over this," he snapped.

"What _?!_ " Gawking in disbelief, I watched the officer scoot off to catch up with Blake and the others. Did Perry know about this? Had he approved…? I burst into the captain's office.

"Captain Perry, you don't seriously think that Ethan Mars is the Origami Killer?!"

"You again, young lady? You're really pushing your luck here."

"With all due respect, Captain. Ethan Mars is _not_ the killer! He's a victim. Like all the other fathers. They're being tested by-"

"Look, missy. My patience is running thin here. Ethan Mars sure seems guilty, and I trust Blake's judgement. The press wants a culprit and I'm gonna serve them one on a silver platter. Tonight."

So basically, the lieutenant was drawing conclusions based on what could be called 'circumstantial' at best. He had no proof. He just wanted a scapegoat. This was low, even for Blake. The captain leaned forward in his chair, his cold eyes boring into mine.

"Now I suggest you go down and start packing. You're no longer an asset here, Ms. Moana."

It was the infamous last straw. On my way out, I slammed the door as hard as I could, making every head turn. I bolted down to the ladies' room, and screamed my lungs out as I hurled a soap dispenser into the wall. The content leaked out of the broken plastic container, as my emotions were leaking out of me. I'd never identified so strongly with an inanimate object before. I went on to grab one of the stall room doors, repeatedly slamming it, screeching, swearing and crying. In the span of a couple of hours, my whole life had gone straight to hell. I'd nearly been murdered, I'd fought with Norman, whom would never speak to me again, I'd fucked up my entire internship, and now the entire police force seemed utterly convinced that Ethan Mars was the Origami Killer.

"Lisa, what the hell _?!_ "

"Jane, not now!"

"Gabs told me. She just spoke to Perry. It didn't come from here, okay. I don't know who ratted you out, but it wasn't one of us."

"Oh, I know who ratted me out. Thanks, Jane. But I really need to be alone right now." Rushing to the wardrobe to get my stuff, my ex-coworker trailed behind me, soon joined by my ex-mentor.

"Slow down, you're not thinking clearly."

"Lisa, I'll do what I can for you, but you have to calm down."

"What are you doing?"

"Getting the hell away from here," I snapped as I threw my scarf around my neck.

"You can't walk out now," Jane insisted. "You'll lose everything you've worked for."

"I don't care!"

Jane gawked at me.

"What's the _fucking_ point, any ways?" I shrieked. "I have _nothing_ left at this place."

"You don't mean that!" She grabbed my shoulders. "C'mon Lisa, this isn't you!"

I twisted until she was forced to let go. "Just leave me the fuck alone, okay!"

"Wait, there's something I have to tell you," she shouted after me. "It's about the ARI-glasses. It's important." Gab's voice interrupted her. "Let her go, Jane. Give her some time."

The downpour concealed the incessant stream of tears as I stormed out of the station. _Focus, Lisa._ _Focus._ _Shaun! Save Shaun Mars._ Now that the entire police force was hell bound on serving Ethan as their scapegoat, _that_ was now up to me and Madison. And Norman – wherever he might be. I had to do something before Blake got both Ethan and Shaun killed. My only lead was that nightclub, The Blue Lagoon. I dialed Madison's number. She answered on the first ring.

"Let's go pay that Paco dude a visit. Where can I meet you?"

* * *

At exactly 11.05 pm, I lurched my way through the Blue Lagoon's red-lit entrance on stilettos dressed in a slim-fit, navy blue dress with black leopard pattern. I figured it was tacky enough to fit this place. My trusty leather bag had been swapped for a black mini-purse carrying various cosmetics and self-defense items. My companion was elegantly dressed in a ruby red blouse and black pencil skirt. The music was a blend of techno-trance-dance-whatever, with the occasional top-ten smash hit. Bathing in bright neon lights, we pushed our way across the packed dance floor to the bar at the other end of the locale. Madison ordered us drinks and asked the bartender about Paco. He nodded towards the VIP area. Its only male occupant was a guy in his forties, sporting a goatee, a horrid zebra-patterned blazer, and an abdomen suggesting a love for booze and unhealthy food.

Zipping at my Mai Tai, I contemplated about reaching out to Norman. And decided against it. Partly because I didn't want to run into him. Not now. But more importantly, because I worried this Paco-fella might be nothing but a giant red herring. All we had was the word of a homicidal maniac. And with Shaun's time ebbing out, the last thing I wanted was to inadvertently lead the FBI agent astray. I didn't want to be a _distraction_ any more.

"Guy's surrounded by goons and girls," I noted. "What now?"

"We need to be alone with him," the journalist affirmed.

"Yeah, no shit."

She shot me a glare. "I wasn't finished…"

"Sorry. Bad day. Go on."

She inched forward and motioned for me to do the same. "I have an idea," she continued, leaning close to my ear. "But you may not like it."

"Try me."

"You see that girl over there?" The journalist nodded towards one of the numerous dance podiums spread across the venue. A dark-haired woman in a short-short black palette dress climbed onto one right next to the VIP area where she commenced twerking in Paco's direction. Within a minute, she was granted access to the occupant's embrace.

"He seems to like his girls sexy," Madison observed. "In an obnoxious and dumb kind of way."

I pushed my lips into a pout. "I think the word you're looking for is _slutty_."

The reporter gave me an indignant look. "Here's the plan; we get up on that stage, impress lover boy with our moves, he invites us to the VIP, and we suggest taking it somewhere more private."

The club was located in an old factory building. The framework consisted of steel wires, grates and pipes. Large industrial fans ran across the upper walls directly under the ceiling. I followed Madison's gaze to a door at the top of a protruding, metal staircase to our left, guarded by a well-dressed goon.

"Paco's the club manager, so I'm willing to bet he's got a private quarter up there somewhere. We talk him into some ' _alone_ _time'_ , and then make him talk to the gun," the journalist finished, patting her purse.

"So, you're basically suggesting we go all Mata Hari on his ass?" I cooked a smile. "That could work."

Her scarlet lips parted ever so slightly. She seemed baffled by my lack of protest. It wasn't a bad idea. Reckless, yeah, but _'reckless'_ did give results.

"You sit tight. I'll do it," I insisted, emptying my drink in one go.

Madison's mouth dropped, and her eyes started to flicker. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yep. You took the heat earlier today. Now it's my turn. You'll be the insurance policy."

"Lisa…"

"Excuse me while I go slut myself up."

I scurried to the girls' room before Madison could retort and locked myself in one of the stalls. I tore off my stockings and used Madison's self-defense knife to molest my dress by shorten its length and craft a hefty cleavage. A former high school acquaintance used to joke about how I was a straight A – both grade-wise and breast-wise. I could never figure out if it was supposed to be a compliment or an insult, but I assumed the latter disguised as the former. Exiting the compartment, I found myself a spot in front of the mirror. I thrusted my chest forward and wiggled my shoulders back and forth as I studied my reflection. Amazing what difference a pair of wires and push-up pads could do.

My cheeks already had a discrete, red tint thanks to the alcohol, and my eyeliner game was always on point. But my pout needed to be more kissable. Pretending to ignore the girls making out in the corner, I dug into my purse for some gloss and noticed I had one missed call. _Norman!?_ My heart started racing, only to drop the very next moment. No, of course not. _Lauren?_ What did she want? I shoved the phone back into the crammed purse. _Sorry Lauren, but you're gonna have to wait._ I put on a thick layer of strawberry-red lip gloss, and removed the clip holding my tresses in place. Almost done. Only one more thing to do. I weighed the small container of daily disposable contact lenses in my hand. I despised having something directly on my eyeball. Furthermore, the eyeglasses were more than just a visual aid. They had, over time, grown to be an integral part of my identity as well. However, if I was going to have a shot at winning Paco's lust, my nerdy, wide-rim spectacles would not make the cut. I removed the seal, took out a silicone lens and placed the concave side over my right iris. Blinking rapidly, I forced the soft material into place. I repeated the procedure for my left eye. There, vision restored, albeit a bit blurry. Making my way through the wiggling crowd, I had to strain myself from rubbing my eyes or pull at the freshly cut dress. It felt like my breasts would fall out any minute, and I was sure everyone was ogling me, though they were noticeably preoccupied with dancing, drinking or hooking up. The reporter scrutinized me from top to bottom.

"Wow, you didn't hold back, did you?"

"If I'm not back in ten, you know what to do."

"What are you going to do if he doesn't talk?"

"Oh, he'll talk all right. Or else, I'll cut off his testicles," I responded, holding up my purse.

The reporter fumbled with her miniscule locks. "Just, um, maybe just squeeze them a little, ok?"

"Whatever."

"Remember that Paco's the guy who rents Doctor Death's apartment," she warned, clutching my arm. "You have to be careful, Lisa. A guy wearing a jacket like that, he's capable of anything."

"Sure thing. Careful is my middle name."

"Are you all right?"

I grabbed Madison's drink, bottomed the remaining content in one swing, and slammed the empty tumbler on the counter.

"Super."

"You sure? You're acting kind of strange."

I shrugged.

"It was you who insisted on being careful and not play PI just a few hours ago. Okay, fine. Just… you know I won't be able to help you, right?" she forewarned, nodding at the top-floor door. "The guy up there will never let me through. Just… don't do anything stupid."

"Like, getting drugged and nearly drilled to death by a psycho serial killer."

I guess I deserved that scowl.


	18. Chapter 18

The manager's eyes drifted absentmindedly and inattentively at the jiggling crowd. Hidden behind transparent pilot shades, his gaze lingered briefly at short skirts and large breasts, blasé at the lady grinding his side. I approached the suited man guarding the VIP entry and leaned in close to his ear. A whiff of pungent cologne hit my nose.

"Excuse me, sir. I really need to see Paco."

"No can do, madam," he bluntly dismissed, holding up his arm as to prevent me from dashing past him. "The VIP area is for special guests only."

I flashed him my most charming smile. "Could you please make an exception just this once and grant me access? It's very important that I see Paco." From the corner of my eye, I noticed my objective eyeing me. I straightened, rushed my hand through my hair, and locked eyes with the person of interest. His gaze drifted off to the side.

"No can do," the bouncer replied with a firm headshake. "Mr. Mendez made it clear he doesn't want to be disturbed, and I don't wanna lose my job."

I figured it wouldn't be this easy. I put on a pretend-sad face and tucked a lock behind my ear. "Is there something I can do to… earn a spot next to Paco?"

His mouth curled up into a half-sided grin. "You wanna earn a spot, lady? Get up there and show him what you got," he advised, jerking his head at the closest empty pole dance podium.

"Impress the boss, and you might get lucky."

I'd attended pole dancing classes back home, but never got past basic and intermediate poses. And I'd never tried it with heels, or with alcohol in my system. I observed the dancers above the liquor display moving along to the beat, which at the moment was pretty decent. They kept repeating the same basic moves, nothing too advanced. If that was the standard this club held their dancers to, my chances were pretty decent. And unlike most of the clientele here, I had the advantage of not being drunk or stoned. No too drunk anyways. Accepting the challenge, I removed my hand jewelry and placed my purse next to the metal cylinder. Grabbing the pole, I made a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle, arching my back and perking my bottom up and outwards.

Moving in accordance to the beat, I did one more round to build up courage whilst my mind screened exercises from years ago, dismissing them one by one as either too advanced or too revealing. _Stay cool, Lisa. Start with the basics._ I turned my back to the metal cylinder, grabbed onto the chrome with both hands, and slowly glided against the pole until my bottom touched my heels. Still clinging to the metal for support, I extended my left leg, and traced the podium with my foot in a semi-circle, whilst simultaneously rising to an upright position. So far, so good. One arm down and behind my back, and the other up high, I started sliding down the pole again, but this time I did a wide leg squat. Doing good. But not good enough to hold Paco's attention. Trying to not think about the likely germ-infested state of the metal pipe, I hoisted myself up the shaft, threw my ankles around the pole, and climbed upwards. I didn't dare try a chopper spin, so instead I went for a carousel spin by extending my legs into a V-shape and pointing my toes. Being very aware of the draft between my legs, I let my long hair cover my face, concealing my blushing cheeks, and pretended to be someplace else. A place without a horde of spectators watching me – and quite a lot of me too. A place where I wasn't eye-candy for a middle-aged man ogling me like a lion drools at a piece of raw meat.

I bent my legs backwards, arched my back, and pulled off a near-perfect swan spin before landing on the podium with a cartwheel. The inside of my palms burned, and tomorrow I'd wake up with bruises on my arms and thighs for sure. To give my muscles a short break, I raised my right leg high and put my knee around the metal cylinder as I stretched my upper body horizontally to the side.

With my back to the pole again, I gripped a firm hold of the metal bar as high as I could. Silently thanking ten faithful years of regular yoga exercises, I pulled my body upwards until my flexed legs were well above my head and my bottom faced the ceiling. The music morphed into a gnawing white noise threatening to burst my eardrums. I hooked my right calf around the pipe whilst keeping my left leg straight. Silently pleading I wouldn't slide, I slowly extended my left arm while clinging onto the pole for dear life. Now for the risky part. Pressing my right leg and left shoulder against the pole, I let go of the bar with the other hand and pointed my left foot downwards, falling into the tricky but alluring Gemini pose. Every single muscle in my strained body was screaming for oxygen.

While I was preoccupied with untangling from the upside-down pose as graciously as I could muster under the circumstances, someone grabbed my wrist. The unexpected sensation startled me. I lost my grip and smacked myself in the face. My head jerked in the direction of the force clenching my arm, locking eyes with the bouncer.

"It's your lucky day, sweetheart. Boss wants you to join him at his table."

Baffled at my own success, I snatched my purse, and ungraciously stumbled off the podium. As soon as my feet touched the floor, tired, lactate-filled muscles, nerves and doubt made my knees give in. The club manager was happy to lend me support.

"Careful, little lady," he warned, flashing me a grin that revealed a set of unnervingly large, yellow teeth. "I loved watching you move baby, but for a moment there I thought you'd drop down fo'sure."

 _Yeah, me too._

 _Okay, this is it_. Stay cool, but not too cool, or he might lose interest. Act cheeky and a wee bit silly, but don't overdo it, lest he get suspicious.

"Oh, I had it all under control," I assured with a confident, cooked grin, as I accepted his outstretched hand, and allowed him to kiss my cheeks. The stench hitting my nose could only be descried as ' _Imma hide the fact that I haven't showered in two weeks by drenching myself in heavy cologne'_.

"Thank you for accepting my invitation, gorgeous. Welcome to my humble corner," the VIP host smirked as he put his arm around my waist and steered me to the couch. The dark-haired woman in the palette dress was nowhere to be seen. Sitting down on the sofa, I crossed my legs, and made sure my right knee casually touched his thigh.

"I'm Paco Mendez, the owner of this establishment," he informed, eyeing me up and down behind purple-shaded glasses. "What's your name, sugar?"

I hadn't thought this far. Maybe not the best idea to give my real name. "Marie," I smiled.

The manager put his arm around my shoulder and leaned in close to my ear. "Dis' you first time here, honey? I haven't seen you here before. And I'd remember you fo'sure," he affirmed with conviction. A depraved creep yes, but too thick to be the Origami Killer. There was no point in dragging this out.

"Is there a place more… private?" I asked with a smile as genuine as the latest Instagram filter as I 'casually' ran my knee against his leg, eager to be over and done with Paco and his _establishment_. A brief moment of astonishment followed, then he flashed me a grin only seen on pervs who think they're about to score.

"Sure, baby. Come with me."

Nerves threatened my legs to give in again, and I considered running to Madison. Flashes of a beaten man, grieving for his dead son while his other child was trapped under a metal grid, slowly drowning as the water around him climbed higher and higher for each drop of rain played in my head. This was not the time to get squeamish. I clutched my velvet purse as I ascended the stairs. I had the element of surprise on my side, and my purse was packed with defense items. Everything would be fine.

Firmly gripping my waist, my host for the night instructed the guard to not be disturbed, side-eyeing me with a perverted leer. The man in the dark suit gave an approving nod. I wondered if Madison could see me. Paco kept chattering as he guided me through a short hallway, but the sound of my thumping heart combined with the muffled beat from the dancefloor drowned out his words. I just smiled and nodded and hoped it was an appropriate response. As he closed the door behind us and I heard a lock click into place, it dawned on me that I was alone with this stranger, locked in his office. _Ok, stick to the plan. Take out the gun, tell him why you're here…_ that was as far as I got with my mental pep-talk before Paco snatched the purse out of my hands.

"You won't be needing this, sweet cheeks. It'll just get in our way."

 _Gulp._

I wavered, panicky looking around for an escape route. The tawdry and macho décor was a perfect match to the occupant. A large, mahogany desk with pictures of half-naked, barely legal teenage girls and a large sitting area took up most of the room. The latter consisted of a white leather couch and a table in the form of letters spelling out the word 'HARD'. Classy. Above the office chair was a display of samurai swords, and a largely unused punching bag was dangling in one of the corners. Built into the wall behind me was large water tank packed with schools of colorful, tropical fish. Paco removed his tacky zebra-patterned blazer, and sunk down on the couch. With the click of a remote, music that was more moaning than singing accompanied by a cringeworthy porno-tune came on.

"Undress for me, baby," he glowered. "Slowly…"

This was certainly _not_ part the plan. My head was still scrambling for a way out. _Think, Lisa!_ _What would Madison do?_

"Err, why don't you, um, maybe pour me a drink first? And, eh, we can, you know, talk, and, um-"

"Oh, we done talking baby," he growled. "Now we get down to business," he leered, and groped his groin as his tongue wandered his lips. _Oh, God. What have I done_.

"Sorry, but I don't feel comfortable with the way this is going, I..."

My eyes widened as Paco pulled out a large firearm from the sofa cushions, and approached me with a menacingly look. Paying no heed to my terror-struck expression, he grabbed my jaw and pulled at my face until I was a mere inch from his.

"I do not take no for an answer," he sneered, clutching his hand around my throat as he pushed his pelvis against mine. The lewd music in the background hit my ears like jet engines.

"You knew what you came up here for. Stop wasting my time and start taking your clothes off. Now!" he demanded in a tone that clearly conveyed he was not joking about. He slowly licked my cheek before returning to the leathery couch where he tucked the gun in his belt. His sticky, cold eyes bore into mine like he'd just scolded a small child.

I fought the urge to wipe off the saliva spread across my face. The pungent, repulsive smell of him lingered around me, making me nauseous. I swallowed hard, and nearly choked on my own spit. _Okay, don't panic. Think._ I started wagging along to the music, frenziedly looking for an escape route. What about the emergency exit? No, too far away. I'd never make it in time. Scream? Forget it! Even if the goon outside did hear me over the loud music, something told me he wouldn't bother checking up on a girl screaming for her life behind Paco's locked doors. The table lamp behind me?! Yeah, right. As if a small lamp with a fabric shade, in the same hideous pattern as Paco's blazer, could knock out the burly, corpulent mass in front of me. Said mass grunted impatiently and made a threatening gesture to the gun tucked in his belt to remind me what would happen if I didn't obey. I unzipped my dress and let it fall to my ankles. The club owner removed his shades and let out a high-pitched growl vaguely reminiscent of whistling. Standing in my underwear, in front of a man determined to have his way with me with or without my consent, I was still lost for a plan and panic was building up. _Who the hell keeps a loaded firearm tucked in his sofa anyways? Someone who is paranoid, that's who. But paranoid of what?_

My purse next to Paco, that was my only chance. My mouth went dry as I realized the only way to get to it was by getting closer to this revolting creep. I filled my lungs with air. The thought of him touching me made me sick to my stomach, but I had no choice. I slipped out of my shoes, approached the manager with slow, sensual moves, and to his delight, spread my legs over his lap.

"Now this is what I'm talking 'bout, sweetcakes."

He tossed away the revolver and groped my butt with both hands, letting out grunts and puffs of pleasure. Feeling his clammy hands on my skin made my stomach churn, and I had to put all my effort into not grimacing in revolt. Could I get to it? No, he was both faster and stronger. Going for it would only result in me being outmaneuvered in seconds. I had to play smart. And dirty. Side-eyeing my handbag, I used my long hair to obstruct the club owner's side-view and reached out my arm whilst the gross pervert was busy feeling me up and drooling at my cleavage. I was an inch too short. Leaning over more, I could barely touch the metal lining as Paco pushed me away from my objective.

"Where you goin' baby?" he grinned.

I cooked my head and flashed him my most charming fake smile as I ran my hands up and down his black silk shirt and combed his greasy hair with my fingers. I had to distract him somehow. His breathing was getting heavier, and his groping intensified as he fervently rubbed my tights and tugged at my panty. He was getting impatient, hungry for more. But I had no desire for a closer look at that tattoo on his hairy chest. _Quick, do something, anything._ Bracing myself, I forced my upper body forward. My diaphragm jolted in disgust as I pressed my mouth against his. Revulsion made every muscle in my body spasm as Paco forced his tongue between my lips. Putting all my effort into not throwing up in his mouth, I twitched and groaned out of disgust, which Paco mistook for lust. He groped my breasts and pulled me close. His erection against my groin, gross as it may be, was just the distraction I needed. With Paco busy assaulting the inside of my mouth, I used my left leg to rub my tight over his member. As his body jerked, I leaned in the direction of my purse, grabbed the syringe Madison had stolen from the murderous doctor, flipped off the cap, and thrusted the needle into the club owner's neck.

We fought for a few seconds, though it felt much longer. The manager bent forward and tried to pin me down. As the anesthetic set in, he plumped on the floor like a pulp of raw meat, dragging me with him. I darted out of the way to avoid getting squeezed between the unconscious Paco and the floor. Hoisting myself up, I moped at the lifeless lump. Panting, I kicked his shoulder. No response. To make sure he wasn't faking it like the mad doc had, I poked his arm with the needle. No doubt. He was out cold. As I put on what remained of my dress, I noted numerous red stripes running down my thighs. Marks caused by Paco's rings, all ten of them, one for each finger, cutting into my skin.

I wasted no time switching off the dreadful porn-track. Then I grabbed the crystalline carafe on the desk and chugged down the content in an attempt to rid my taste buds of Paco's saliva. A gross blend of concentrated ethyl alcohol, phenols, aldehydes and various esters hit my pallet, but I continued swallowing until the gag reflex won over the swallow reflex and I spat out the content. I'd never understand the appeal of Whisky. I went back to the unconscious Paco, retrieved sealing plastic strips from my purse and got to work. Ketamine is a powerful sedative. It kicks in within seconds but is also equally quick to wear off. He'd wake up any moment. As he was too heavy for me to lift, I strapped his hands to the table legs, and used another strap to tie his feet together. Shortly after, he came through with a confused expression. As his eyes caught me crouching next to him, he went from bewildered to scowling. Index finger crossing my lips, I held up the gun menacingly.

"I'll cut straight to the point. You rent a shitty apartment on Marble Street. I want the name of the person who's been using it."

He shot me a spiteful glare and scoffed mockingly at the tiny revolver in my hand as he tried to break free. I put the mini-gun to his forehead. "Size doesn't matter, Paco," I cheekily relayed. "It might be small, but it'll do the job just fine."

"You don't have the balls, lady," he sneered. "But you gonna know ballz when I catch up with ya."

 _Seriously? That's your best line?_

The liquor I'd just downed hit my circulatory, making me feel warm and tipsy. Recalling his chubby hands up my thighs, and the barrel pointed at my chest, I struck the molester over the face with the gun handle and spat on his shirt. Unsurprisingly, it didn't get my any closer to my objective.

"You only hurt me a little bit, sugar," the shitbag replied mockingly. "We can keep this up all night. I'm not 'fraid of a pretty little, doe-eyed girl. Hey, I mite even enjoy this."

All right, fine. I can play games too. I retrieved the empty syringe from my purse and held the needle in front of the manager's eyes. "Well, I _have_ proven that I'm capable of stabbing you with sharp objects. You know what happens if this goes into your carotid artery, Paco?"

His eyes briefly widened, then he went calm again. "You act so scary, but you wouldn't even hurt a fly, would ya, sweetcake?"

I had to press this guy pretty hard if I were to get any information from him. I hadn't come all this way to back out now. If I chickened out, all this would've been for nothing. Moreover, it had already rained over 5.3 inches since Shaun was abducted. He only had a few hours left.

"You wanna bet on that? You know, apparently one of the most effective means of torture is to insert a sharp object under a person's fingernails. The pain is… excruciating. Just imagine if…"

It was time this slimeball spilled. Clenching onto the syringe, I forced the needle through his testicles.

"Owwwaaaaa."

He gurgled, sneered and frothed. I pressed on until the needle had fully penetrated his scrotum. Then I twisted the syringe.

"Apartment on Marble Street!" I shouted. "Name. NOW!"

"You CUNT! I'll kill you!"

Sweat was running down his forehead, and his red face showcased unrelenting agony. I twisted the syringe again.

"I never even sat foot in that apartment, bitch!" he spat out between gurgles of weeps, retches and squeals. "I know nothing of what goin' on there."

"Not good enough!"

"Forget it, I…" I twisted again. "Aaaargh! John! John Sheppard! He's been using the apartment."

" _John?"_ I snorted. "You really think I'm falling for that? Try harder, _sweetcake_."

"It's the truth, I swear. If he's using a false name, I don't know his real one."

As I removed the needle penetrating his testes, agony was replaced by immediate relief. I held firmly onto the syringe with one hand and the minigun in the other. The manager was now soaked in sweat.

"He's… an ex-cop who… bailed me out of jail a few years ago," he gasped, his icy blue eyes cutting into mine. "Got rid of some evidence for me, or so he claims. About a year ago, he came asking for a favor. Said he needed a place. Off-grid and anonymous, but still easy to access. No questions asked. That's all. That's all I know, I swear."

And it so happened, Paco's drug supplier bought up a bunch of cheap-ass, shabby apartments a few years ago. I crammed my stuff into my purse and bid my goodbyes to a gagged Paco.

As I left the office, the door leading out to the dancefloor opened, and a tall and sturdy figure in a dark blue coat and a wide-brim hat appeared in the doorway. For a brief, horrifying moment I was dead sure I'd get busted. As luck would have it, he had his back to me as he argued with the guard outside. I hid behind the open door to Paco's office. Mystery guest won the dispute, and the door slammed shut. Heart pounding, I listened to heavy steps inching closer and closer. The stranger entered the office and closed the door. I'd remained undetected.

I should use this opportunity to get as far away as possible. But why be so extra with the outfit? Notwithstanding the downpour outside, he'd gone into a lot of trouble to hide his face. Could this be John? What were the odds? I put my ear against the door and heard muffled voices as I assume the mysterious indicidual was freeing Paco. Putting my eye to the keyhole, I saw the manager circling his desk. There was no sign of the cloaked guy. I overheard only fractions of the conversation. " _Marble street… beginning to draw attention. Some crazy bitch came asking…"_ My pulse quickened. Glued to the keyhole, I tried blocking out the rhythmic bass from the speakers outside by covering my ears. A shadow moved up to the desk. _"I know you kept me out of jail and all, but that bitch nearly cut off my dick!"_ Mystery man stretched out his arm to hand something over to Paco. I couldn't see what it was, but it made the club owner panic. I shifted position to try and get a better look at Paco's visitor. _"Don't fuck around, man, this is… no wait, don't-"_ More shouting, followed by a bang. A gun-kind-of-bang. Had Paco just been… shot? Because I'd been asking about… Was he dead? Had I caused this? Horrorstruck, I didn't move away in time. The door hitting my face made me fall on my back. A large figure stared down at me. A scarf covered the lower half of his face, but I could see his amber eyes. The eyes of the _Origami Killer_.

I had about a nanosecond to prevent an inevitable assault. He was twice my size. Charging him would be suicide. The purse. By my feet. Out of reach. I kicked the door in his face. It made him falter for about half a second. I snatched Madison's gun from the half-open purse and aimed it at him, back on my feet in no time. He backed, and I intuitively followed. A fraction of a second too late, I realized I'd been set up. Within an arm's length from Paco's desk, he threw an adornment at me, making me stumble. The gun was smacked out of my hand. Then the floor disappeared under me, and I hit something hard. Confused, I tumbled off the desk, and caught a glimpse of a dark blue coat and wide-brim hat leaving the area. No, I would not let him get away. If my suspicion was correct, this man was the only one who knew Shaun's whereabouts. I needed something heavy, quick.

Snatching the carafe, I charged after him. He was well over a head taller than me, and I hit his neck instead of over the head. He swung after me, but I dodged the attack. The first one, anyway. The second one hit my temple and knocked me over. Blinded and writhing on the floor for the second time that day, I heard yelling, followed by sounds of an intense fight. This was the doctor's torture chamber all over again, except this voice belonged to a male. It seemed the outside guard had finally decided to be of use. On my feet again, I was met with the sight of mystery man's back protruding from behind the desk, busy strangling someone by the sounds of it. My eyes darted around the room. I had no idea where Madison's gun was, and judging by the guttural, choking sounds emerging from behind the counter, I didn't have time to look for it either. I accidentally kicked the lamp with the horrendous zebra-shade onto the floor. Its cord was a good ten feet long. An idea sparked. Literally. I stomped on the shade until I head glass cracking and clicked on the switch. The exposed wires started glowing a bright red. Mystery man was likely sweaty from fighting and thick clothing, and I'd just made myself a taser gun. Climbing onto the desk, I thrusted what remained of the bulb into the assailant's neck. He shrieked and instantly jerked backwards. I lost my balance and fell flat on top of the man behind the desk as the assaulter disappeared through the door. I felt a clutch around my arm, and a well-known voice asked if I was all right. Looking up with dread, I saw a pair of familiar, green eyes staring back at me, equally shocked.

 _Norman!_


	19. Chapter 19

Norman dashed after the assaulter while yelling over his shoulder at me to stay. I tumbled after him but remained in the doorway, leaning on the frame. The FBI agent came to a halt at the top of the staircase leading down to the dance floor. Having lost sight of Paco's murderer-slash-Origami Killer, he turned to the guard. I was too far away to hear the conversation but judging by Norman's fuming expression, he was clearly not happy with the reply he got. I moped as the usually sweet-tempered FBI agent placed his hand around someone's throat for the second time within the last two days. I stepped out in the hallway, trying to catch the words but with the loud music thumping away, it was futile. Norman let go of the stunned guard and made his way back to the office. And me. His green eyes met mine, glowing with fury and disbelief.

 _Oh, man. This is gonna suck._

"I told you to stay!" he barked.

"I did stay, I…"

The glare he sent me made me go quiet. In a rush of self-consciousness, I pulled at my sorry excuse of an outfit as I trailed behind the agent to Paco's office, tearing it even more. As of now, it looked more like a swimsuit than a dress. Also, I reeked of scotch. In a feeble attempt to conceal my very obvious cleavage, my hands flew to my chest. I wanted to run from the inevitable, upcoming confrontation and rejoin Madison. I hated the thought of Norman yelling at me. Hated the thought of him seeing me like this. But I'd made my choices. Bad choices. Now I had to face the consequences. My arms fell to the side.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

My neurons desperately scrambled for an explanation but no matter how I tried to string the words together, I realized it'd only make the situation worse. There was nothing I could say that would make sense in the FBI agent's mind. I took note of a nasty bruise on said agent's right temple and a fresh-looking cut traversing his brow.

"What were you thinking? Who are you trying to impress, hm?"

Humiliated and mortified, I was unable to respond. The anger and disappointment in his voice made me choke up, and I fought the tears building up. _Focus on the case, focus on Shaun._

"Not everything is about you, Norman. I'm trying to save a boy's life."

"I never said that it was. I _told_ you to not go off on your own! And you promised me. Of what help are you if you end up getting yourself killed _?!_ "

"Oh, you're the one to talk about doing stuff that could get you killed."

A brief moment of befuddlement followed. "It's different," he argued, thinking I was alluding to the wounds on his face. "My job involves certain risks."

"I'm talking about you snorting Triptocaine, Norman."

The sudden and unexpected accusation and change of topic stumped him, leaving him moping for a brief moment. Then his expression hardened.

"I quit over a week ago," he conceded in a tone brimming with resentment and disillusion. "I almost gave in at the park. But thanks to you, I didn't."

He strode in my direction, firmly holding my gaze to make sure every single word registered. "Ever since that time you were there for me, I've been fighting the withdrawals. Every single day. And I won. Every time." He paused, swallowing hard. When he spoke again, his voice nearly gave in.

"Until today."

His words couldn't have hurt more if I'd been physically slapped across the face. Overwhelmed by shame and remorse, I fully realized how selfish and idiotic I'd been.

"You realize I could've found you dead?" He shouted, pointing at Paco's body. "I could've walked in here and found you dead!" It looked like he wanted to say more, but instead, he threw up his arms. His eyes wandered the trashed office; the dead manager, the sliced plastic strips, the tipped carafe and spilled liquor, then back to me, wobbling on high heels in a scanty dress and smeared makeup.

"Who _are_ you, really?"

"This is not… who I really am," I yelped, my arms crossing my chest. "You know that, right?"

Norman shook his head in a I-don't-know-what-to-believe-anymore manner. His fingers flew through his brown hair as he turned away from me. But not before I took note of his trembling hands.

"Look, I FUCKED UP okay?" I shouted to his back with quivers in my voice. "And I'm sorry. But please, give me a chance to explain. When all this is over, can we please at least sit down and have a talk?"

Beautiful, exotic-looking fish glided carefree through water, blissfully oblivious to the commotion outside their home. An eternity later, the FBI agent slowly turned to face me again, raising his chin.

"We'll see."

He fished out his trustworthy shades and the accompanying glove, triggering a flashback to last night when I'd tried on the ARI outside my apartment. An agonizing memory of a concerned Norman by my side firmly holding onto my shoulders, taking me into his arms when I'd started to feel unwell. A little over 24 hours ago, that intimate moment had led to a passionate kiss. The reminder stung, and I could no longer fight the tears.

"I have to examine the crime scene. I advise you go home."

Silently crying, I picked up my purse and the scattered contents. A fracture ran across one of the lenses, rendering my glasses unusable. _Great._ Lingering in the doorway, I stole one last glance at the FBI agent, busy ignoring me.

"Um, you'll probably find my prints in the system."

His movements froze. I got no reply. He stood fixed with his head in my direction. I could feel his glare through the dark lenses.

"Long story. I… eh, should go. Um, you might want to look into ex-police officers named John Sheppard. Or something."

For the last few hours I'd been acting insanely stupid. Not to mention a complete shit to people who care about me. It was time for apologies. I left Norman to his investigation and beloved VR-shades and made my way down to a waiting Madison where I was bombarded with questions.

"Lisa, my God you look terrible. Are you all right? What happened? Who was that big guy in the dark coat? Was that the FBI agent chasing him?"

"I'm fine. Long story. No idea. Yeah, it was. What about the big guy? Where did he go?"

"He walked up the stairs about ten minutes after you," the journalist informed. "The guard tried to stop him, but he bullied his way through. I got worried about you, and I was about to call the police when I saw agent Jayden in the crowd. He was heading for Paco's office, so I figured you'd be okay. Shortly after, big guy came running out, and disappeared in the crowd." She paused, eyeing me up and down with a frown.

"What happened up there? Did you- did Paco…?

"No, he didn't."

My hastily put on, ripped dress and upset expression did nothing to convince her.

"How far did it go?"

"Far enough. I'd rather not talk about it. Look, Madison. I know I've been a total bitch tonight and I'd like to apologize for-"

A grin was curling at the corner of the reporter's mouth.

"What?"

"I'm not gonna argue with you there."

"It's just that… well, um... me and the FBI guy… we sort of had a 'thing' going on. Had. I blew it. As well as my entire internship at the PD."

Compassion and sympathy softened her features. "I haven't exactly been straightforward to you either. I'm partly to blame for your troubles. I'm sorry."

"I brought this on myself. It's just been a really shitty day. C'mon, let's get out of here so I can get out of these clothes and I'll tell you all about it."

* * *

At Madison's place I recapitulated the events in Paco's office, fixed my makeup to a more me-look, and put on some borrowed clothes. Black, skinny jeans and a dark brown tee. As Madison was almost a head taller than me, I had to roll up the legs.

"I gave the name John Sheppard to my editor at the Tribune. I'm waiting for him to get back at me," she informed as I exited the bathroom.

"At this hour?"

"He told me to call any time."

My eyes wandered the sizeable, red-brick wall upscale studio apartment bathing in downtown streetlights let in by panorama windows. Most of the décor was a tad impersonal, but stylish and pretty much what I'd expected. Undoubtedly the place came with a sizeable rent too. No wonder she was desperate for a story.

"Cool place," I affirmed with a series of miniscule nods while pushing my lips forward.

"Thanks." The hostess put her laptop aside and sunk into the couch, curling one knee under her chin. "It's a little impractical. Not to mention expensive! But I was desperately in need of a new start."

I trailed the row of aesthetically pleasing, black and white photographs on display in the window frame running along the wall behind the living room sitting area, studying them one by one.

"Oh? How come?"

"Long story, I… I was- I used to work abroad as a correspondent. Sometimes... oftentimes actually, in war-ridden areas. Until one day… I couldn't take it anymore."

I directed my attention from the photographs to the reporter. "Man, that must've been tough."

"Yeah, it's why I struggle with nightmares and insomnia. After a breakdown, I got in touch with Sam, an old college friend who's now an editor at the Tribune. He got me a job there, the first step to the fresh start I desperately needed. New job, new place…"

She paused, her eyes shooting upwards and her hand stroking her bangs. "New haircut."

I cooked a smile. "It suits you. All of it."

I slumped down on the yellow and red couch next to the hostess and texted Jane an apology where I promised to make up for my outburst earlier and asked her to search the police archive for a man named John Sheppard. Putting down the phone I was met with a teasing stare.

"The pole dancing was pretty impressive. I had no idea you could move like that. You keep surprising."

Self-consciousness won over confidence and I lowered my eyes. "I didn't either, actually."

"That was obviously not your first time."

"I, eh, attended some classes back when I lived on the West Coast," I clarified, picking at my cuticles. "Mostly when my regular yoga classes were cancelled."

"It's so weird seeing you without your glasses."

I held up my fractured spectacles. "Broken."

"Oh. But aren't contacts more convenient in this weather anyways?"

"They are. And so is a car," I retorted with one cheekily raised brow. The brunette gave me a bewildered look.

"You like your bike. And I like my glasses. Practical or not."

"Point taken."

Still waiting for Jane and Madison's contact to report back, I used my right hand to fumble with my phone and my left to twirl my hair whilst nibbling on my lips.

"This is clearly not your style," the journalist chuckled, sensing my discomfort.

"What? The clothes, you mean? No, it's fine."

She was not convinced. And true, the outfit, the contacts, sans jewelry and my trademark messy ponytail, I didn't feel like _me_. Truth be told, I hadn't really been feeling like me all day.

"I don't have any hair ties, but I think I have a scarf somewhere you can borrow."

"Yo, this is totally A-Okay."

The brunette shot me cheeky grin before disappearing behind a glass wall ahead and to our right. She returned a moment later with a leather-rim necklace tied to a black stone and tossed it to me.

"I must've given away the scarves when I moved but I did find this. You can have it."

It was a nice supplement to the rest of the outfit. The gem reached just below the chest area.

"Better?"

I cooked a smile and flashed her the V-sign made famous by Churchill. "Totally."

She returned my beam. For the first time since the quarrel with Norman at the precinct earlier, I felt somewhat okay.

"God, I've been acting like such a bitch. I'm truly sorry, Madison."

"Hey, it's okay. You had a rough day. We've all been there."

"It's no excuse. And it's not just about tonight. I got this nasty habit of avoiding confrontations in fear of pushing people away, paradoxically somehow ending up doing precisely that. As a result, I bottle up my emotions and when they are released – whoa, explosion."

Pausing, I wiped my chin. "I just don't do feelings. At all."

"Hey, hey. We all feel this way sometimes. You had a lot of stuff coming your way at once. You're human. We all make mistakes. The best we can do is to own up to them, learn from them and try to do better next time. Learned that one the hard way."

I sniveled. "And then what?"

"Then we apologize to the ones we hurt and hope for forgiveness. Maybe it's not too late with agent Jayden? Go and talk to him when this is over."

"I don't know. This seems unfixable. But at least now I know that he cares."

"Of course he cares. I'm sure he'll understand. With time."

I doubted it. Wiping away yet another tear, my chest started shivering, making me gasp for air. Madison put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. I leaned on her chest and she placed her chin on my head. Heartache blended with gratitude for my growing friendship with the journalist. And I knew I'd be okay. The short time I'd spent together with FBI agent was a painful, but precious memory I'd carry with me for the rest of my life. But I'd be okay. With time.

"I'm good," I asserted. "Okay, _John Sheppard_. We're looking for a white male between 30 and 45, give or take a couple of years. Once Jane and your editor get back to us, we narrow our search to males born between 1964 and 1983. We also know that he's got a flexible job, access to a car and thanks to my lucky encounter earlier, I can also provide a rough description."

"I told Sam to focus on the Philadelphia area, or else the list would contain hundreds, maybe thousands of names, but truth be told, we can't be sure he was even born here, or in this country for that matter."

The reporter let out a huff of quail and despair. "It seems so futile."

"I know. But we have to assume that he was. We don't have the time or resources to search any wider. Besides, the killer knows this town like the back of his palm. I think it's safe to assume that he at least has lived here for quite a few years."

I paused to finish the thought processing. "Most likely he was born and raised here," I assured.

Madison had a distant, glossy look in her eyes. Undoubtedly out of worry for Ethan. I placed my hands on hers. As on cue, the email from her contact arrived. The list was shorter than anticipated, and thanks to Norman's profile, we could cross out most of the candidates. We were eventually left with five names. Looking into them a little more, we crossed them out one by one. One had recently moved here from New Zealand, two were currently serving abroad, the fourth had terminal cancer and the last one turned out to be well under 5'8'' and clearly way too short.

"What now?"

"We can't give up," I stressed. "Until Shaun's body is found, we have to keep trying."

I started pacing back and forth as Madison went over the list again. "There is one John Sheppard, age 54, runs a delivery business… Can we be certain the age estimate is correct? Did agent Jayden say anything about why-?"

"No! Sorry, I just… no, he didn't."

My phone buzzed to life. It was Jane. Sorry for the late response, but she had to get to the lab first. Bad news. There's no one with that name in the Philadelphian law enforcement database. Not active, nor retired nor suspended. Also, she was worried about me. I typed out a quick reply, sank down on the couch again and took a deep breath.

"I can't believe I told Norman to look for ex-cops named John Sheppard," I groaned, burying my face in my hands and digging my fingers into my hair. "I'm such an _idiot_."

"Don't beat yourself up," Madison consoled. "You did what made sense there and then. You shared information. Anyone would. At that point, from what you'd learned, it was the logical thing to do."

"And now he's gonna waste precious time chasing a dead end, just like we are, all while Shaun is slowly drowning."

"All the more reason to not give up. Let's clear our minds and go over everything we know again with a fresh look."

Madison was right. We were missing something, but what? The name, _John Sheppard_ …

"The likely explanation is that the killer used a false name to Paco," I proposed.

"Then it'll be hopeless to find him. This name is the only lead we got."

"No wait, _wait,_ hear me out. From what I've come to learn about this killer, there's meaning behind everything he does. That's most likely the case for his alias as well. Maybe this isn't such a random, generic pseudonym as it sounds. Let's look into all the John Sheppard's one more time. _All_ of them."

Rejuvenated, we went through the extended list of all John Sheppard's from the last eighty years, one by one. Living and dead.

"Look at the family history," I suggested. "Considering he only targets young boys and the physical and mental torture he puts on the fathers; our guy likely has some serious daddy issues. Look for someone with an abusive male family member."

The journalist's index moved down the monitor as she trailed the names for the third time, stopping about two-thirds down.

"Here's a John Sheppard that died in '77, age ten. On October 26, he was playing at a construction site with his twin brother when he got stuck in an open pipeline overflown with water due to heavy rainfall over several days. His brother, Scott, tried but failed to save him and he ended up drowning."

My skin started to tingle. I knew it could just be a coincidence, I knew we needed more than that. But somehow, I also _knew_ we were on to something.

"Does it say what happened to the twin?"

The monotonous tapping sound of fingers flying over keyboard buttons filled the air. The reporter leaned in close to the monitor. Her brows furrowed ever so slightly.

"Despite the mother's protests, he was placed in foster care due to repeated reports of domestic abuse. The mother, Ann Sheppard, has severe Alzheimer's and is currently at a geriatric ward. We probably won't learn anything from her, but it doesn't hurt to try. Maybe we can find a way to revive her memories. What if-"

"We don't have the time. We can't wait till morning. It'll be too late for Shaun. Where's the twin now? Is there an address for Scott Sheppard?"

"He adopted the family name of his foster family. He goes by the last name Shelby."

My body went cold. The journalist raised a brow at my moping expression.

"What did you say _?!_ "

My companion looked like a giant question mark. "What part?"

"His name. What did you say his name was?"

"Shelby. Scott Shelby. He _is_ an ex-cop, now working as a private eye at an apartment complex over at Old Town, not too far from where Shaun was taken. It might be another dead end, but it's certainly… Lisa, is everything okay?"

I barely registered Madison's worried frown. A twin brother, drowned in rainwater when he was ten, the same age range as the Origami Killer victims, a poor family with a history of abuse, an ex-cop that's recently been visiting the parents of the Origami Killers victims. There was no way this was a mere coincidence.

"Madison!" I yelped. "I know who this is."

* * *

 **A/N: thanks for the kind words, reviewers. To the guest hoping for a long, nice conversation. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, even if the long and nice talk was not with Norman.  
**


	20. Chapter 20

Now it was Madison's turn to go wide-eyed. "Wait, you're telling me you _know_ this guy?"

I leaned over her shoulder and skimmed through the details pertaining to our prime suspect. Shelby was in the upper age range, lived right in the comfort zone and his job was the perfect cover.

"Yes. No. Kind of. I've never met him or anything but his name has come up more than once during the investigation."

"What _?!_ "

I was about to clarify when my phone buzzed to life, startling the both of us. _Lauren._

"Hey, Lauren. Sorry but I don't have time to talk right now. I'll call you back-"

Her opening line instantly made me change my mind.

"No, wait. Don't hang up. It's important. You remember Scott Shelby? The private investigator that's been investigating the Origami Killer case."

I met eyes with the bewildered reporter and put on the speaker. "Go on."

"Yesterday I went to his place and asked to be involved in the investigation," Johnny's mother commenced. "When I heard on the news that there was another boy… I could no longer sit back and do nothing while the man that murdered my son and Susan's boy walks free. He said no at first but I insisted, and eventually he agreed and started bringing me along to talk to suspects. But when I told him about our support group, he said it was a bad idea. He doesn't like me seeing Susan and Emily. Just mentioning their names makes him angry. I called the families again. None of them hired him. He's been acting really strange today and he just left again in a hurry."

She was talking faster than usual and it wasn't until now that she stopped to catch her breath, giving me a chance to respond.

"Where's he now?"

"He went to see Charles Kramer, you know, the Kramer Construction tycoon. He said that his son's the Origami Killer and that his father is covering for him. He's going to force him to confess tonight. But it doesn't add up. I-I think Scott is hiding something."

 _So much for being out of town till next week._

"You have to call lieutenant Blake," I insisted.

"I did. He refused to listen. He said there's no way, that he knows Scott and it's more likely that his grandmother's the Origami Killer. He knows who the killer is and if Kramer's got something to do with the murders, then there's just one less scum to worry about."

 _I don't fucking believe this._

"Lauren, I'm sorry. I have to go. But you're right about Scott. Stay away from him! He's dangerous."

"How do you know…?"

"I don't have time to explain. I'll call you back. Just promise me you'll stay away from him."

"I will."

"What was that about Kramer?" Madison queried after I'd hung up. I briefly recapitulated yesterday's visit to their estate.

"You think we're wrong about Shelby? Kramer Jr's always been shady as hell."

"Or he's found the perfect scapegoat."

"Maybe we should call agent Jayden," the journalist suggested.

"No, I'm not calling Norman. Not now. Not after… We need proof first, okay? Solid proof that'll convince a jury without a doubt this guy really _is_ the Origami Killer."

"And Ethan's innocence," Madison choired in. "Mrs. Winter said he just left his apartment. Let's go check it out."

Without a warrant no evidence uncovered in Shelby's apartment would hold up in court but lost for a better idea, I hesitantly agreed. We still had no idea where Shaun was. There might be an address, or coordinates or the like at the PI's place that could point us in the right direction. Moreover, if our suspicions were right, Shelby would likely be watching Ethan all night to see if he succeeded in saving his son. He would probably not return to his apartment in a while. Right?

Madison handed me a black leather jacket and a pair of dirty biker boots with metal spikes. I caught a glimpse of a punk-rock biker girl in the mirror. Messy, chestnut hair framed an oval-shaped face, pale from anxiety of what she was about to do.

"It's a good look for you."

I rushed my hand through my mane and took in the unfamiliar reflection. All that was lacking was the leather bracelets and the look would've been complete.

"Not too shabby, I guess. C'mon, we got work to do."

Shortly after, we found ourselves on the second floor in an old apartment complex in Old Town, outside apt: B-201. The sign on the door read _Scott Shelby. Private Investigator._ I tried to convince myself I was shuddering because of the weather. Madison was also visibly nervous, which felt weirdly comforting and unnerving at the same time.

I peered out a window close to an ascending stairway, and straight into Shelby's kitchen on the right-hand side. There was no sign of anyone. My partner-in-crime had her ear against the apartment entrance. We communicated with our eyes. _Hear anything?_ She shook her head. _See anything?_ I shook mine. She proceeded to knock on the door.

"What if he's in there?" I mouthed.

"I'll say I'm on the wrong floor," she mouthed back. _Great._ There was no response.

"I'll pick the lock. You keep watch."

I paced the graffiti-covered hallway to the sound of metal scratching against metal. After this was over, I'd ask her when she'd learned to do that. And whom had taught her. And why. To calm my hammering heartbeat rising by the second I rubbed my temples with circular motions to the rhythm of stress-reducing breathing exercises. _It's cool. All good._ I was only about to trespass on a serial killer's private property. No biggie. Not even the worst thing I'd done today. It was raining cats and dogs outside. Shaun had an hour left to live, top. The police were out hunting for Ethan, and Norman was probably still searching for ex-police officers named John Sheppard. Thanks to me. Ethan… best case scenario, he'd end up arrested. Worst case… dead or missing, like the other fathers. I _had_ to do this. If Shaun's body was found on a wasteland while Ethan remained missing, and I could've done something to prevent that… I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I had to stay strong. I _had_ to.

A soft, but distinct click emerged from the lock. My accomplice pushed the door ajar and peeked in. As she crossed the threshold, she made a jerking motion with her head, encouraging me to follow. Too late to back out now. A scorching smell of burnt rubber immediately hit our noses. The stench led us to a garbage bin on the other side of the living room. The can was filled with soot of what had once been paper and electronics, still letting off an orange glow.

"It's evidence, going up in smoke!" the reporter cried out.

"There could be something he missed. Let's split up," I suggested. "I'll search the living room and kitchen and you take the bedroom and bathroom. Whoever finishes first helps the other one out."

I started by flipping through the files on Lauren, Susan, Hassan and the other parents, lying in plain sight on the desk. There was nothing to imply he was doing anything but merely investigating the Origami Killer case. The folder also had a list of subscribers to origami magazines. Which you'd totally have in your possession if you were a PI hunting a serial killer leaving behind origamis as part of their M.O. A half-filled bottle of _Jack Daniels_ and an empty tumbler stood next to the desk lamp. The drawers held office supplies, more booze, a gun, an asthma inhaler and his old cop badge. Strange. Aren't they supposed to turn in their badge when they quit the force?

I browsed through the large file cabinet adjacent to the desk. Nothing but old case files. All the paperwork had been done by hand or with a typewriter. The living room drawer held some old man's clothes and little else. The living room cupboard held outer coats for all seasons, a raincoat and…

"Madison, come look at this."

"His old police uniform _?!_ "

"Always trust a cop," I said under my breath, my heart sinking as the realization hit. "That's what we tell our children. If you ever get lost, go find a police officer. He was wearing this when he snatched his victims."

"No wonder they followed him willingly," the journalist mumbled with disdain.

"And why no one took notice," I added. "The ones that did witness the abductions were oblivious to it. You found anything?"

"No, but I haven't looked in the bathroom yet."

Alone in the living room again, I carefully observed the surroundings with Norman's profile on repeat in my head. The apartment was impersonal, tidy and pristine with everything perfectly arranged in its proper place at a level that seemed borderline compulsory.

 _"_ _According to my profile, the killer's calm, organized, methodical, determined and highly intelligent."_

The only personal items were a couple of pictures from his cop-days and a diploma from the police academy. Above said pictures was a series of four small windows directly below the ceiling. Damage to the wall around the frames and tears in the wallpaper suggested post-construction installment. What an odd place to set up windows. Slipping out the borrowed boots, I stepped on top of a low-height wooden sideboard and peeked into a miniscule bathroom. As minimalistic as the rest of the place, it contained only the absolute necessities. Okay, weird. Madison was busy searching through the cabinet below the sink. I knocked on the glass and waved at the astounded brunette.

Besides the creepy, built-in windows allowing you front view to whoever was using the restroom, there was nothing unusual. The unusual about the place was… what was not here. There was no TV, or even a radio to be found anywhere. The only news source was today's paper neatly folded on the living room table. The desk held an old-fashioned landline and a typewriter. The only digital watch in the apartment was the one on the barely-used microwave still flashing 0:00. Scottie was definitely not a techie and seemed to prefer it old school.

 _Who the hell still uses a typewriter in the 21_ _st_ _century? Nostalgia?_

Besides the aforementioned pictures, the walls were mostly empty save from some cheap paintings and a large map displaying the area around the Delaware river. The kitchen held nothing unusual. The recently burned objects in the bin, the utensils in the sink, the tumbler on his desk, which still had leftover brown liquor in it all suggested he'd recently left the apartment.

 _Out of town my ass._

Despite out best efforts, we found a grand total of nothing. The large map on the wall, conveniently coinciding to the comfort zone, the files on the victim's parents, the list of people subscribing to origami magazines, questionable indeed but not proof of anything. It could all be readily explained by the fact that he was investigating the Origami Killer case. Clever bastard.

"We've searched everywhere," Madison grunted.

"Well, he wouldn't leave incriminating evidence out for someone like us to find. Maybe he got all his serial-killer stash somewhere else. Like, in a locker or a container or something," I suggested. "If you were a serial killer, what would you do?"

"There was this case I covered, where the offender had a hidden room where he..." the reporter speculated, mumbling to herself. "When the police…"

"As in, a secret compartment? That's such a total cliché. And here? In this tiny apartment."

"Clichés exist for a reason," Madison retorted with a shrug, her eyes wandering the living room.

 _Did she just…?_

"Over here, look."

Shoes on, the reporter stood on top of the same sideboard as I had ten minutes earlier, peering into the restroom. "See? The bathroom wall goes here," she demonstrated, indicating with her hand between the peep-windows and the living room cupboard. Jumping down from the furniture, she traced the wall.

"Which means, there should be a room right about… here," she affirmed, pointing at the city map covering the wall between the cabinet and the windows facing the main street outside.

"C'mon. Help me with this cupboard."

We scooted the coats aside and traced the cabinet wall. Indeed, there was a false back. Madison had been right. Shelby sure didn't have much imagination when it came down to it. After some fumbling, pushing and pulling, we managed to open the concealed door and stepped into a small chamber. The first sight that met us were numerous orchids under artificial light.

"There's more than enough evidence here to prove Ethan's innocence," Madison chirped. "Look, a computer. It has to be important since it hidden in here."

Botany wasn't my field but they looked like the correct species. An old-fashioned typewriter held a sheet of paper displaying the enigmatic church poem. A small shelf held several origamis, most of which were folded to look like a dog. Like the ones left in the victims' hands. Glued to the walls were pictures of a woman and two boys. Young Shelby, his brother John and their mother Ann, most likely. On some of the pictures the woman was crouching next to a small patch of orchids, a proud smile spread over her face.

"Let's see what's on it… Shit, it needs a password."

Madison's voice was like, far, far away. Overwhelmed by light-headedness as the pieces were finally adding up, I clutched the doorway. My skin was tingling. There was no longer any shred of doubt. Private detective Scott Shelby _was_ the Origami Killer.

"Some cover," I muttered. "An ex-cop now private detective."

"He knew exactly how to avoid raising suspicions," Madison mumbled with her eyes glued to the monitor, fingertips dancing over the keyboard. "How to cover up his tracks, how the police think, how an investigation is conducted… he's been working with these guys for nearly twenty years."

"He was counting on the police not taking note of the missing fathers," I added, lowering my head by bending forward whilst leaning on my knees. "And he knows how Blake's like."

"Damn. I can't figure out the password."

"Um, well he's a middle-aged technophobe. He must've chosen a password he can easily remember."

"My thought exactly. But so far, I've tried _origami_ , _rainfall_ , _shelby_ … nothing."

Shooting upright, my blood went cold. _What was that sound?_ Frozen stiff, I listened for footsteps.

Nothing. It must've been one of the neighbors. Knowing very well I shouldn't touch evidence, I picked up the origamis one by one, looking for password hints. One of them had a nametag. _Max._

"Look at this. Try variants of Max and origami," I suggested.

"Yes! _maxorigami_. I'm in. There's a file here… Oh my God, it's Shaun! Under that grid. It's the same video that was on Ethan's phone. There's an address here! 852 Theodore Roosevelt Road."

"That's nearby." I texted Norman. Didn't get a reply. Didn't expect to either. Still felt disappointed.

We rushed out of the serial-killer-secret-room and were met with the sight of a tall and corpulent man in a beige trench coat blocking our path. A man I had seen before. At the police station earlier today. He'd been talking to Blake as I exited Norman's office together with Jane, heartbroken.

* * *

 _Having barely escaped the police, Ethan dragged his corpse through a hallway bathing in ominous red, towards a white light. Was he hallucinating? Was he dying? He couldn't tell what was real any more. His legs would barely carry his frail, exhausted body, but he found strength in telling himself this was the last trial. Soon, he'd be reunited with Shaun. He entered a large, fully-lit room, white from top to bottom. The bright light cut into his eyeballs like knives. There was a table in the middle, surrounded by numerous cameras and mirrors. The tabletop held a flask, a watch, and a media player. As Ethan approached, a video started playing:_

 ** _Are you prepared to give your life to save your son's? There is a deadly poison in this vial. It will kill you in exactly 60 minutes. If you drink it, you will get the last letters of the address. You will have enough time to save your son and say goodbye to him, but then you will die. You can drink the vial or decide to leave. The choice is yours._**

 _So, it had come to this. After all that he'd suffered, after everything he'd done, this psychopath, this tormenter now claimed his life. It actually made sense in some twisted, morbid way. Heck, it was poetic even. At this point, Ethan was no longer afraid to die. His only regret was that Shaun would lose his father. But he'd live. His son would live. This was the first trial where Ethan held no doubts. He unscrewed the lid and downed the bitter-tasting content. Afterwards, he felt at peace for the first time in God knows how long. This nightmare was finally close to an end. Soon, Shaun would be safe._

* * *

The man, who could be none other than Scott Shelby, had a gun steadily aimed at us. His eyes bore into mine as his free hand moved to a red spot on the left side of his neck. Thanks to my makeshift taser earlier. I clutched Madison's hand.

"Why did you attack me at the Blue Lagoon?" he asked in a gravelly, croaky voice, his chubby fingers trailing the burn mark. "I wasn't going to hurt you. You should've just let me go."

"Did you kill Paco because I asked about the Marble Street apartments?" I squeaked.

"You may have expedited his death, but I was going to kill him anyways. You got nothing to feel guilty about," he shrugged.

"Quite ballsy of you to show up at the police station earlier," I confronted, clinging to my companion. "Were you checking in on the investigation."

"I've been covering my tracks all week but I got sloppy and was arrested. Luckily for me, my old pal Carter bailed me out," he relayed with a leer.

 _Of fucking course he did._

Madison begged him to let us go. Her hand felt clammy. _Keep him talking. Try to learn as much as you can. You can do this._

"How do you keep the children alive for days in cold water?"

"I had heating mechanisms installed to make sure they didn't die from the cold."

 _How thoughtful of you._

"A mammal, an insect, a reptile, a fish and a rodent," I recapped. "You got the animal kingdom well represented in those sick trials of yours."

"Ah yes, the trials," he whispered as a proud grin spread over his rotund face. "The first time, I was too vague. Hassan didn't understand what to do," he scowled. "The initial set of trials were too challenging. They could only complete one or two before failing. Since then, I've removed or altered the most perilous and added new ones. For over two years, I've worked on my trials. Through trial and error, I have perfected them. No pun intended," he relayed with an unnerving grin before he continued his monologue.

"Trial one is _The Bear_. Usually shy and easily scared but will fiercely defend their cub with their life. Trial two is _The Butterfly._ These frail insects will always move towards bright light. Did you know that some cultures see butterflies as souls of the dead passing onto heaven?"

He paused, his eyes scrutinizing our faces for a reaction. My expression held firm, but I was squeezing Madison's hand hard. Poor girl must've lost all feeling in her fingertips by now.

"Trial three is called _The Lizard_ ," the serial killer continued. "These magnificent animals can replace lost limbs, you know."

"I'm a biologist. I do know," I hissed, doing my best to hide the tremors in my voice. "Too bad Ethan won't get his finger back."

"The fourth I named _The Shark_ ," Shelby resumed, ignoring my statement about Ethan. "Powerful, violent creatures at the top of the food chain. I had Ethan kill a shark. It all beautifully culminates with _The Rat_ \- the ultimate sacrifice."

"What do you mean by-"

I stopped myself mid-sentence. Deep down, I _knew_ what he meant. The world faded as I processed what I'd learned. I barely registered Madison repeating the question. She got no answers. I think. Everything related to the Origami Killers M.O. could somehow be tied to Shelby's childhood. The orchids, the origami, the typewriter, likely the same model his mother used, represented happy memories in an otherwise turbulent childhood. He picked his victims from poor and scruffy areas because he grew up in one, close to a railroad.

Emotions tore through me, tossing me between ache and pityness for the boy that held his twin's hand as he helplessly watched his life fade away over thirty years ago and revolt for the monster he'd become. Tiny, lifeless bodies with a folded paper in their hands. Young lives brutally ended. Susan, Lauren, Ethan…. Grieving mothers, suffering fathers. And he, Scott Shelby, was responsible for it all. Identical twins and the distinct epigenetic markers they develop as they grow up was the core of my dissertation. What epigenetic changes had turned this man into a child murderer?

"The Origami killer has claimed eight victims, they say. Shaun Mars could be victim number nine, they say. But I've only killed seven."

 _Only._

"Joseph Brown." I confronted, snapping back to the very real, imminent threat in front of me.

"Yes, little Joseph Brown. That was not on me."

Despite appearing calm and composed, the Origami Killer was angry. The barrel was wavering ever so slightly. Madison's eyes flickered between us.

"Gordi Kramer?"

"Gordi wanted to be like me."

"How do you know?" I challenged.

"His father told me. Said his son held the kid under water for too long. That he didn't mean to kill him. Daddy dear made a few calls and Gordi was released from custody," he relayed with disdain.

"Accident or not, he abducted and killed a child. He should go to jail," the journalist asserted.

"Oh, we don't have to worry about Kramer anymore. His father can no longer protect him."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything. Old Kramer had a bad heart. I just let nature take its course."

"You pushed him until he got a heart attack!" Madison shrieked. "YOU SICK-"

"Oh, I'm the monster here? He was protecting a child killer. No one will miss him. NO ONE."

 _Geez, are you even listening to yourself? Besides, that is not the fucking point._

"All these children died just to find a father that could save his son?" my hostage-in-crime opposed.

"They died because their fathers didn't save them!" the burly man sneered. "They died because their fathers didn't love them enough. Just like our father didn't love us. I've been looking and looking for a father that loved his son more than he loved himself. But they would fail. Every time. When they failed, _I_ failed. Every time I had to close another boy's eyes because his father didn't love him, a part of me died too. I started to lose hope, wondering if I ever find another father that loved his son enough that he would sacrifice everything. That's when I realized…"

He squinted. "I was there. When Ethan jumped in front of the car to save his son. I saw it happen. I realized I had to go back to where it all started. Ethan Mars. If anyone could do it, it was him."

"Ethan has suffered enough," Madison cried. "let him go."

"What would John say to all this, Scott?" I dared.

His brows furrowed. "John can't say or think anything. He's dead. Dead! All thanks to our low-life of a father. He could've saved him. John could've been alive. But he did nothing."

The gun was shaking vigorously now.

"I held his hand when he died," Shelby stammered in a brittle voice. "There was nothing I could do."

 _Keep him talking. Try to get through to him._

"I can't imagine the pain you've gone through, Scott. But is this really how you honor his memory?"

"SHUT UP! Just, shut up. You don't understand." He wavered the firearm in circles and for a brief, horrifying moment I thought he'd accidentally set it off.

"You have no idea how it feels to be a worthless nothing in your father's eyes. Believe me, I have suffered. Just as much as my victims!"

 _Keep telling yourself that._

The Origami Killer's pocket gave off a faint ding and he fished out a device the size and shape of a phone, or a camcorder. "I have to cut this meeting short," he informed with a satisfying smirk. "Ethan's made the ultimate sacrifice to save his son."

"What did you make him do, you monster?" the girl clutching my hand cried out.

"You should've stayed away. Now, get in. Both of you."

"Don't do this," Madison pled. "There is still time. Please, do what your father could not."

"Don't. Push. Me!"

The stone-cold look in his eyes and the barrel aimed straight at us left little doubt to the seriousness of the threat. Back into the concealed space, the door closed behind us and a soft click emerged from the lock. I crouched next to a sobbing Madison and closed my hands around her jawline.

"Hey! Ethan's still alive, okay. Shelby needs him alive to save Shaun. It's not too late."

She nodded and hoisted herself up. We started hammering the walls, in search of weak spots. Orchids, equipment and origamis went flying everywhere. Within a minute, we smelled smoke.

"Is he burning more evidence?"

"I don't want to know. Let's just focus on getting out of here."

The wall closest to the door's hinges let of a different sound when we struck at it. The wall caved in ever so slightly, but we weren't strong enough to knock out a hole. The smell of campfire grew more intense and smoke started oozing from cracks in the doorway.

"Oh my God, we have to get out now!"

Madison yanked what looked like a power source and repeatedly hammered the same spot until it caved in. We frantically tore at the plaster till we were able to squeeze through. The journalist went first, then she helped me as I panicky stumbled through the newly made hole, eventually collapsing head-first on the bathroom floor.

"We can get back to the living room through the bedroom," Madison informed, grabbing my arm.

The air was already thick with smoke, making it hard to see and even harder to breathe. We covered our mouth and noses with moist towels. From the open doorway we could see flames spreading through the living room. I darted to the bedroom windows in hoped of spotting a fire staircase, a gutter or anything to help us climb down. Nothing. There was no escaping from this side.

"It's too high of a jump," I yelled. "The fall will kill us for sure."

"Lisa, the ceiling is already on fire-"

And just like that, the ceiling lamp came loose, and struck Madison over the head on its way down. The brunette collapsed on the floor next to the bed.

"Madison!"

The journalist remained unresponsive. I fiercely shook her jacket. I slapped her on the cheeks.

"Madison, get up," I cried. "Please."

I slapped her again. Harder this time. Still no response. Her hair had gotten moist where the glass shade had struck and a crimson stream was trickling down her temple. I placed my fingers above her collarbone. Thank God. A pulse. I put her arm around my neck and tried to hoist her up. No use. I tried again. No, not a chance.

"Wake up, Madison. We have to get out of here. Get up, Madison. _Please._ "

I collapsed on top of the unconscious woman, wheezing and coughing. It was to no avail. She was out cold. My fists still clenching her jacket, I lifted my head to the sight of the living room entrance, the only way out, slowly but surely becoming overgrown by a jungle of flames. There was still a chance at slipping through unharmed, but a minute or two from now, the doorway would be engulfed by the fire, trapping us in here and dooming us to an insufferable fate of choking out and incinerated. Alive. If I left Madison, it was over for her. But if I stayed much longer, it'd be over for me as well. There was also Shaun to consider in all of this. What if Norman hadn't seen my text and I was the only one who knew where Shaun was? What if I was the only one that could save him?

What should I do?

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for the kind words and the support, Enigma =) Haha, I want them together too tbh, but slow burns are the best! Now I am curious what the ship name is. Would you mind sharing?**


	21. Chapter 21

Out of all the conceivable choices and their likely and unlikely outcomes playing in my head, there was no scenario where I'd be carrying her out of here. Not a chance. I couldn't even lift her. I was a Ravenclaw, not a Gryffindor. I clenched the unconscious woman's jacket and rested my forehead on her chest, sobbing.

"I'm sorry, Madison," I wept. "I'm so sorry."

The subtle, but steady rising and falling of her chest served as a continuous reminder that she was still alive. There _had_ to be a way. _Focus, Lisa._ _Think of something clever, fast._ How to wake up someone unconscious? It would depend on what had caused the blackout. In this case, severe blunt trauma to the head. _Smelling salts!_ If only I had some. What was the active ingredient, again? The stuff that wakes you up. _Ammonia!_ Smelling salts are basically ammonia vials. Also commonly found in detergents. Wasting no time, I scooted back to the bathroom, tore open the cabinet and swooped the contents on the floor. There. A toilet cleaner. I unscrewed the lid and put the tip to my nose. An intense, pungent smell best described as concentrated cat pee added to the smoke already burning my eyes and airways, making me cough violently. It was ammonia all right _._ A sudden gush of tears streamed down my cheeks. The contacts! My hand flew to my sore eyes. Still there. Thank goodness. I poured the detergent over a towel, hurried back to the comatose Madison and put the detergent-soaked cloth over her nose. The effect was pretty much instantaneous. She came through, coughing vigorously. _Viva_ _la chemistry._

"Madison, we have to get out of here," I wheezed between unremitting coughs to my disoriented, but now awake ally and friend. "Now Madison!"

The living room entry was almost covered by flames. Crossing it would be dangerous. But we had no choice. Madison took the lead with me lurching behind. Holding hands, we leaped over the fire and into the living room. A sudden, intense pain ran through my left shoulder, making me roar.

"Lisa, you're on fire!"

And I was, quite literally on fire. Panic spread through me when I saw flames rising from my left arm. Madison used her water-soaked towel to extinguish the mini-fire. Gritting my teeth, I wrapped the cloth around the burned skin. With nothing to cover our noses and mouths on our way through the smoke-filled and dangerously flame-infested apartment, every breath burned us from inside. The journalist made a beamline to the windows behind the large, wooden desk.

"No!" I shouted, tugging her jacket with my good arm as she was about to open the one to the right of the AC. "Backdraft! Backdraft!"

"What?! The movie?"

"No! Actually, yes. If you open that window, influx of oxygen will cause an up-burst in the fire. Right where you're standing. You'll get burned alive."

"We'll choke unless we do something to clear the smoke."

Like the true woman of action I'd come to know her as, Madison grabbed the typewriter on Shelby's desk, hurled it at the glass and took cover under the desktop, dragging me with her. The window shattered and fresh air surged through our airways, rejuvenating us both. And the flames.

"Why aren't the fire alarms going off?" the journalist shouted in my ear.

"He must've disabled them," I surmised. "He's destroying evidence. And that includes us." A propane container placed on a counter would work just fine as a bomb once it got heated enough. "But by now people outside must've seen the fire and called the fire department."

The influx of outside air made breathing slightly more bearable but that wouldn't last. We tipped over the desk and the file cabinet, creating a fire-free pathway to the apartment exit. As expected, it was locked. The keyhole had been clogged by some kind of sealant, making lock picking impossible. Madison kicked the door hard. Twice. It wouldn't budge. We kept on kicking, hammering and shouting in hopes that someone outside might hear us until my head-injured companion hunkered down in pain. Despite our best efforts, it was all in vain. This exit was every bit as uncooperative as the secret room doorway. In desperation we escaped to the kitchen, if nothing else but to buy us a couple of precious minutes. The smoke wasn't so thick here. Yet. I gathered towels and oven mitts to cover the gap between the door and the floor whilst Madison searched for an escape route. As I tucked the cloths into the crack under the door, a rumble made me jolt in dismay. The microwave and the coffee maker were both on the floor and in their place on the kitchen counter, a dark-haired woman of action wearing a purple leather jacket.

"We can escape through here," she shouted, peering out a small window.

"I-I don't think that's a good idea. You just hit your head really bad and I, I-… Let's seek shelter in here and wait for the firefighters," I opted. "They'll be here any minute."

"We have to get out of this apartment," my ally insisted as she started to climb through the open window. "This is our only chance. We're gonna die here if we stay."

"We leave through the window," I theorized. "Okay, great. And then what?!"

"There's another open window over there leading into the hallway outside the apartment." She pointed circa forty-five degrees to her left. "It's close enough to jump. From there, we can get out."

"What? No, this is crazy. I can't."

"Yes, you can. We have no choice, Lisa."

The reporter found her footing on a small ledge, beckoning at me to follow. I hesitated. That propane tank on Shelby's desk ought to be getting real nice and warm by now. I knew all too well what'd happen once the gas got heated to the point that the container no longer could sustain the pressure. Madison was still gesticulating at me. I crawled onto the counter, shaking and crying. The journalist slid along the brick wall as far as she dared before taking the leap of faith. Literally. I moped in awe as she clutched onto the sill and climbed to safety. Well inside the hallway, she didn't run to safety but remained in place with her arm stretched out, begging me to hurry. When I finally moved, it was like someone else was controlling my limbs, as if I was an android following a set of commands. No pondering, no reflection, only sensory input and observation. The air shifted from smoke-filled and warm to moist, windy and cool. The rain masked my tears, soaked my hair and alleviated some of the pain incessantly radiating from my burnt skin. I found my footing on the very narrow and very wet and slippery ledge, well aware that the slightest mistake would result in falling to my death on the asphalt below.

"Lisa, jump!"

"I can't make it!" I shrieked, clinging to whatever I could get a hold on to.

"I'll catch you. But you have to jump. Now!"

"I-I'm going to fall," I stammered.

"I'm not leaving without you. You're not going to die. Not here. Not like this. I promise."

I have no idea how I found the courage. It must've been pure survival instinct. I jumped, screaming at the top of my lungs. Madison caught me. With a firm grip on my jacket, she started to pull me up. My panic meter hit one hundred as I felt myself dangling in thin air.

"My arm… I can't hold on."

"I'm not letting you go. Climb, Lisa. I got you."

Pain soared through my injured arm and spread to my chest as I struggled to pull myself up. Once safely inside the building, I fell onto the floor, weeping. Madison helped dress my wound by re-attaching the towel.

"Told you I had you," the heroine consoled, caressing my hair. "It's gonna blow any minute. Let's go."

We joined the rest of the evacuees. Outside, a firefighter steered us clear of the apartment complex, just in time for the inevitable explosion. I collapsed next to Madison's motorbike. The pain was almost unbearable.

"Oh my God. Lisa, the leather has melted into your skin. You need to see a doctor. Go see the firefighter over there. He'll-"

"No time," I interrupted. "Let's get a cab. We have to make sure Shaun is safe."

"Forget the cab, hop on."

"Whoa there, no way missy. You're in no condition to drive."

"I feel fine."

"That's the adrenaline talking. You had a lamp fall over your head, Madison. You were gone for several minutes! I can almost guarantee you have a concussion."

"It's only a couple of minutes away. Wha-what was the address again?"

"852 Theodor Roosevelt Lane."

"Right. That's just a few minutes away. We'll be there in no time."

"You just said that."

"Yeah. I know… I…"

The brunette put her palm to her forehead, her eyes flickering. There was no way I'd let her drive off on her own. Not in her condition. And there was no time to worry about concussions or second degree burn marks. Shelby still had the upper hand and there was no time to lose.

"Just… let me drive, okay?"

"You know how to?"

"It can't be that much different from driving a car, right?" I responded with a nervous chortle. Spoiler alert, it was. The adrenaline would keep me going, and making bad decisions, for a while longer. I just knew I had to be there. For Shaun. For Madison. For Norman _…_ My heart picked up pace. _Norman._ He'd likely be there too. I didn't know how to feel about that. But that was not important now.

I texted Jane the address and took the driver's seat. The reporter held onto my waist and gave me instructions on what to do and where to drive. A few minutes later, after nearly driving into a pedestrian and a building twice, we pulled off close to the point of interest. It was unbelievable how close we'd been all this time. An old warehouse by the docks, with several others like it on both sides. The area's aesthetics consisted of cranes, containers and filthy junk. Your typical harbor props. The moment she stepped of the motorcycle, Madison hunkered, clutching her stomach and grunting.

"Madison!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You're nauseous and confused, all well-known side-effects of concussions."

"I'll. Be. _Fine_ ," she repeated with determination, locking her chestnut eyes onto mine.

 _Sure you'll be._

The reporter's attention shifted to a point behind me, and she was on her feet whooshing past me in no time. "Wait, Ethan!"

The runaway turned towards us. His expression showed no emotion. Pale, almost translucent skin and glossy, lifeless eyes, he was like a walking dead.

"How did you find me? It doesn't matter. Go back. I have to do this alone."

"We didn't find you, we found Shaun," I informed. "Or, we found the killer. Which led us to Shaun. And now you."

"The police are on the way," Madison eagerly relayed.

 _We hope._

"There's no point," he insisted, his brittle voice cracking. "It's too late for me. I'm already dead. He made me drink poison." He glanced at his watch. "In exactly eight minutes, I'll die."

"No poison can be timed to the minute," I retorted. "In particular when ingested. He's bluffing you."

"I can't take that chance."

"Do you have any symptoms?" I challenged. I was met with dead eyes. "Okay, any new symptoms, anything… after you took this 'poison'."

"No, I-I guess not."

"So, you allegedly swallowed a mystery poison that'll kill you in exactly eight minutes from now, and yet you don't feel anything," I snapped. "How does that make any sense? Use your head, Ethan. . . If you don't wanna live for yourself, live for Shaun. He's already lost a brother. He can't lose his father too."

"She's right," Madison shot in. "Fight, for Shaun. And for me. For us. I don't want to lose you, Ethan."

A newfound determination in the father's eyes and a miniscule nod sufficed as an answer. We'd won him over. The three of us headed to the warehouse entrance.

"What do we do, Lisa?"

 _Welp, when did I become the strategist?_

"Um, well… eh… Shelby doesn't know we're here. That, um, gives us the element of surprise. Ethan, you enter first. Me and Madison follow behind as, eh, backup. We split up and look for Shaun."

 _Unless he was already here, lurking at us from the shadows._

I shot one last glance at the large, empty space behind me before following Ethan and Madison into building no. 852. We entered a concrete fortress of bricks, steel and rusted iron. A large hole in the ceiling suggested little to no maintenance. The place had likely been abandoned for years. Except for, you know, serving as a crime scene for the infamous Origami Murders. I listened for sounds of cars, distant sirens, footsteps that did not belong to either of us, desperate cries from a drowning child… nothing. The only sounds were raindrops drumming at metal, our own footsteps and…

"SHAUN!"

Ethan and Madison, shouting Shaun's name over and over as they scurried off in separate directions.

"Shaun! It's dad."

"Over there," I pointed to a large, open space directly under the gaping hole in the ceiling. My two companions seemed unconvinced.

"He drowns them in rainwater, remember? It's the only area where it's raining."

All three of us hurried over to the open skyline. There, in the midst of piles of scrap metal was a large, square-shaped hole in the floor, covered by a grated lid. And under the bars… the lifeless body of Shaun Mars, floating in rainwater.

"Shaun! I'm here. Dad's here. I'll get you out."

The lid covering the drywell wouldn't budge. We needed leverage. I uncovered a steel rod in the pile of junk metal which we used to pry open the lock and open the grate. Ethan leaned over the opening, hoisted his son out of his water-filled prison and laid him gently down on the concrete floor. The child's complexion had a sickly purplish-grey color and his lips were a dark purple.

"He's not breathing," Ethan rambled panicky. "He's not breathing! We're too late."

The discoloration around his eyes and on his lips did indicate hypoxia. The tissues weren't getting enough oxygen. Or, any at all. I felt for his pulse. Nothing. The boy was not responding. His skin was clammy and cold. Shelby had likely turned off the heaters.

"Now would be the time to put your medical training to good use!" Madison panted, her head resting on her knees.

"As well as my first aid course by The Red Cross," I added. "Okay, I'll do the chest compressions. Ethan, you do mouth-to-mouth. Madison, call 911."

I tilted the boy's head backwards, making sure his chin pointed upwards and unzipped his jacket.

"Use your fingers to close his nose," I instructed. "Give two rescue breaths."

I placed the heel of my left hand on the center of Shaun's chest. Then I placed the heel of my other hand on top of the first, lacing my fingers together. I delivered 30 quick compressions, each about 2 inches deep. _One-two-three…thirty._

Then Ethan did mouth to mouth. And I pushed at his chest again. _One-two-three...thirty._ _Ethan, go._ One more time. _One-two-three…thirty_. _Go._ Rinse and repeat. Then, movement. A cough. One more. The little boy opened his eyes. Ethan lifted the child up in his arms, rambling on about how much he loved him. The wristwatch let out a series of beeps, making the distressed man stop mid-sentence.

"I'm still alive," he moped. "The poison. It should've killed me."

Well, what do you know. It was a bluff after all.

The father clung onto the disoriented, shivering boy, sobbing from relief. Father and son, reunited. Alive. I exchanged glances with the reporter, who returned my tired smile. She put her arm around my waist and pulled me close. The four of us bundled up. It had been one helluva ride. More than once, I'd fought for my life. I'd fought with people I cared about, deeply. I'd lost my internship, sacrificed my dignity, had my heart broken… and all within one and the same day. On my shoulder, scorched skin would eventually turn into a scar, a visual reminder of this eventful day. But in the end, it had been worth it. I leaned against Madison's shoulder, relieved knowing it was finally over.

I spoke too soon.

The bliss was interrupted by footsteps and a click. A-gun-ready-to-fire type of click. _Shelby._

"I can't let this pass, Ethan. You were supposed to save him alone."

The three of us rose to the sight of a barrel pointing straight at us. Ethan held onto Shaun so tightly, as to say he would not let go for anything in the world. My eyes scanned the place for an escape route. It had become second nature to me by now. That's when I noticed the camera in the corner. And its little red LED-light…

"Enough!" the father shouted back. "I've played your games. I did what you asked. Now let us go."

The so-called 'detective' directed his attention to me and my partner-in-crime. "I don't know how you two managed to escape. But it doesn't matter. My trail ends here."

Madison leaned forward and put her head in her palms, groaning. I grabbed her shoulder. She wavered me off and straightened. "It was never about finding a father, was it?" I challenged, still holding onto the reporter's arm. She put on a conceal-don't-feel façade, but I could tell she was struggling to keep her footing.

"Maybe it once was, but not anymore. You torture these men because you want to. You relish in their pain and misery and you enjoy watching them slowly but surely destroy themselves," I sneered. If it was true or not, I really didn't care. It was all about stalling for time.

Shelby glowered at me. "You don't know me!" he barked.

"In your secret room, there was another poem. You're planning to abduct another child, aren't you?"

At that moment, the journalist collapsed in my arms, sending me down with her.

"No, Madison!" I shrieked.

For the second time in less than thirty minutes, I was clinging to my unconscious friend. Shelby had his weapon aimed straight at my terrified face, cooking a half-grin. That too, for the second time in under thirty minutes.

"Lower your weapon, _now_."

In the darkness behind the Origami Killer, I could ever so faintly make out the hint of a silhouette. I couldn't visually identify the person challenging Shelby, but I'd recognize that voice anywhere. _Norman._

"Drop the weapon and put your hands behind your back!"

Shelby started to lower the firearm. Then he raised it again with his grin returning, again with a steady aim at me and a lifeless Madison. Norman stepped out of the shadow.

"This is your last warning, Shelby!"

The Origami Killer raised both hands, barrel pointing to the ceiling. The FBI agent approached him slowly and cautiously. He had his gun steadily aimed at the false PI's back, who seemingly had surrendered. But there was something in his eyes… Norman closed in on the offender and lowered his gun to retrieve the handcuffs. I screamed out. My intent was to warn the FBI agent, but it came out as a guttural, animalistic squeal. Shelby swung at his opponent, smacking the handgun out of his hand and knocking him down. The dreadful realization that the Origami Murderer might kill this man I held so dear had me instinctively look away. I heard sounds of fighting. But no gunshots. Forcing myself to look up, I was met with the sight of Shelby running up a stairway. Norman was quick on his feet and in hot pursuit, ignoring my calls. He spoke into a handheld device. Likely a police radio.

"Ethan, I need your help."

The befuddled man crouched down next to me and the comatose Madison. He was still holding on to Shaun, who was drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Wh-what's wrong with her?"

"She's got a concussion. A lamp fell on her head," I explained. He didn't look any less confused after that. With my free hand, I dug into my pocket and handed him my phone. "I'm going after Norman. The policeman. You make sure they get help."

"Be careful," he warned, clutching my wrist. "You have no idea what this man's capable of."

I had to put all my inner strength into not rolling my marble-round eyes at the beaten, well-meaning father. "Oh, I have. Believe me."

With Madison resting safely beside Shaun and his dad, I jumped to my feet and sprinted towards the stairs the two men had recently ascended.

"And Ethan, look after her," I shouted over my back. "Don't leave her side."

The ground was littered with ponds. For every stomp, a shower of water splashed in all directions. Rainwater and strands of wet hair obscured my view. My arm was aching and every muscle was shaking from lack of sleep, proper meals and fear. But I was not going to let anything stop me.

* * *

 **A/N: common symptoms of concussions include confusion, nausea, memory loss, sensitivity to light and/or sound, change in sleeping pattern among others. Always consult medical personell if you suspect you or someone else might have a concussion. Also:  
**

 **\- ammonia is a strong irritant to the airways. Do not inhale.**

 **\- the CPR in this chapter is as described on the American Red Cross website under CPR for infants and children.  
**

 **Thanks to everyone who is still here after over 20 chapters. Thanks for the story alerts and feedback, it means a lot. And especially big thanks to my regular reviewers Enigma (love that ship name) and my best friend distant-rain.**

 **Final note: Lisa do have a driver's licence but as she's currently a student she can't afford a car, which is why she's been taking the bus.**


	22. Chapter 22

Following Norman's trail led me to a wall-mounted ladder. _Just… perfect._ I used my good arm to hoist myself up, one step at a time, and my injured arm for support. It took forever to climb. Pain spread through me for every ascending step, but I kept going. _Norman, please be okay._

I crawled onto a catwalk near the celling. The men were nowhere to be seen. I sprinted up a set of stairs leading outside, tripped and nose-dived onto the cold, hard and wet concrete. Ow. Dumb, horror movie cliché number one. But in my defense, it's not so easy to control your limbs when, thanks to stress hormones and low blood glucose, your body would rather go into shutdown mode and every move becomes a struggle. I staggered to my feet, wiping my nose. My stud had cut into the tissue and a small streak of blood ran across my thumb and index, but it was mostly my pride that had gotten hurt.

Outside I found myself on the roof next to the large hole above the drywell that'd served as Shaun's prison cell. Gusts of wind threatened to blow me over. I wrapped my arms around my shivering chest. It was so cold all of a sudden. I spun around. Where were they? Over there! A beige trench coat floating in the air as the FBI agent was fighting The Origami Killer. I had no choice but to balance over a narrow pathway if I were to reach them. Whoa, that sure was a long way down. I felt dizzy all of a sudden. _Keep it together, Lisa. You can do this._

Maybe I should've picked up the gun Norman had dropped downstairs? But I had no idea how to use a firearm. The likely end result would be Shelby outmaneuvering me, getting hold of the gun and use it against me. Like… he was doing to Norman now. My body froze. The FBI agent had raised his hands as to shield his face. I picked up some debris. I didn't even check what it was but instantly hurled it at the fluttering trench coat, saving Norman's life in the process. For now.

Shelby chased after us, determined to kill us both. The agent dragged me behind a corner and, in an attempt to lose the assailant, circled around and steered me towards an orange-red contraption and up a set of steps. We were on top of some type of crane. Gunshots roared the air. He'd found us. Norman shielded me with his body as he pushed me inside the control room where I crouched under a panel. Keeping his head low, he used a steel rod to block the door. Then he joined me. The cloth wrapped around my arm caught his attention but he didn't get a chance to ask about it as Shelby began shooting the windows. I covered my ears and shrieked in terror as the piercing sound of high-velocity metal hitting reinforced glass roared through the small space. The glass cracked but didn't break. Norman closed his arms around me. Another shot. Screaming turned to gasping and wheezing. It was so hard to breathe all of a sudden. As if the whole world was pressing down on my chest. Shot number three. The FBI agent hugged me tighter. Why did he have to smell so good? My heart was racing. For more reasons than one.

"They'll be here soon," he shouted in my ear as another shot roared through the air, immediately followed by two more. "We just need to hold out a little bit longer."

When the assaulter ran out of bullets he used a metal pole to repeatedly hammer at the weakened spots. The window still held firm but for every strike, they caved in a little bit more. It's true what they say about life flashing before you. At least for me it was. In what I thought was my final moments, I saw not only all that had been; my family, my happiest moments, my achievements… but also what could've been. The FBI agent… the man I loved.

"You and me, it wasn't a lie. I fell in love with you," I cried out to the man holding me in his arms, not knowing if I'd get the chance to say these words again. "I love you, you dimwit," I declared to his dumbstruck expression, my hazel eyes locked on his. Not exactly how I'd imagined dropping the L-bomb. He responded by pulling me even closer.

A gush of wind filled the small space. The glass had broken. Norman shouted something I couldn't hear. He got up. I shouted back at him. I can't even remember what. Through a haze of tears and all kinds of disturbing, miscellaneous noises I registered the words 'stay'.

"Norman, no!"

The FBI agent had already left the compartment. The man in the trench coat punched him in the stomach and through my foggy vision I saw my love sink to his knees, clinging to his abdomen.

"YOU MONSTER!"

Over the safety rail they went. I crawled out of my hiding spot. I knew it was dangerous but at that moment I didn't care about me. I was not about to sit idle by as the love of my life was beaten to death. Besides, what would stop Shelby from coming after me next?

I jumped over the railing. It was more difficult to regain my balance than anticipated. It took me a couple of seconds to register my surroundings and realize I was standing on a moving conveyor belt. The two men were engaged in a life and death fist fight some fifteen feet from my landing spot.

Shelby pushed the FBI agent, who fell on his back and came rolling in my direction. Then he charged at him. I picked up a cardboard box and tossed it at the assaulter. It distracted him long enough for Norman to get up, grab him by the neck and land a sold kick in his abdomen. That did not fly by without a price. An enraged Shelby flipped the agent over his shoulder like a pro wrestler. Norman landed hard on his back behind the _'detective'_. Wheezing and coughing, he was visibly struggling to get up. The Origami Killer now directed his attention at me.

"Lisa…"

Still struggling to regain his breath, Norman's voice faded. A piece of wood came flying my way. I ducked and staggered backwards. To keep my balance, I remained crouched to keep my center of gravity close to the moving platform. The one advantage I had over my tall and plump opponent. A metal pipe whooshed past me. For each miss, Shelby got more and more furious.

"For fucks sake… RUN!"

The conveyor belt was near its end and I watched debris falling to an uncertain fate. I did not want to join them. If I were to come out of this predicament alive it'd be thanks to wits and not brawl. I had to outsmart my adversary. Two more successful dodges had him charging at me. As he was struggling with his balance, he moved slowly enough for me to anticipate his moves.

 _You're smart, Shelby. But I'm smarter. I hope._

The moment he leapt towards me, I quickly scooted backwards. Shelby missed me by an inch. His arms wavered in the air as he lost his footing and fell backwards off the conveyor belt into thin air.

"Can you fly, you sucker?" I roared. Any shred of sympathy I might've felt towards this monster was long gone. "Can you fucking fly?"

It was finally over. For real this time! Red and white lights caught my attention. Vehicles and voices cold be heard below.

"What the hell was that about?"

The FBI agent limped up behind me, clutching his side. At the end of the conveyor belt we stepped onto a platform with a ladder conveniently leading to the ground.

"It's from _Tremors_." I explained to the confused expression. The confusion ensued.

"No? Really? Great movie, totally a cult classic. The original, that is. Wouldn't bother with the sequels. They're trash. Yeah, we should probably just… go down and… join the others."

* * *

A medic gently and dexterously cleaned my wound. The seared skin looked ghastly but it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared. After the aid I thanked the intern for her assistance, downed the pain killers she offered and meticulously put on Madison's jacket over the bandage. Lifting my gaze, I was met with a familiar pair of grey eyes, brimming with hurt and concern, boring into mine.

"Don't you ever run off like that again!"

"Jane! I'm sorry. Please understand, I couldn't stay there a moment longer."

"I get that. But you left us worried sick. You ran off screaming and cursing, you wouldn't return my calls, then hours later I get a text out of the blue asking me to look up a 'John Sheppard'. No word on where you were or where you'd been."

I closed my palm around my burning face. I had no excuse.

"It-it all came tumbling down at once and I couldn't think straight. Please, forgive me Jane."

"Of course I forgive you. But I'm allowed to be a little mad right now."

Still avoiding her eyes, I lowered my hand.

"You wouldn't believe the shitstorm going on at the station right now." The sudden, but welcome change of topic and slightly softer tone in her voice had me revert my gaze.

"Already?!"

"You bet! No doubt kickstarted by your FBI friend over there."

I avoided looking in the direction Jane alluded to and instead focused on the tiny groove between her collarbones. Her shoulders dropped and her hips swayed slightly to the right. The at-ease posture had me drop my shoulders as well.

"Since Shelby's an ex-cop, internal affairs were called in. Mr. Private Eye has already been linked to multiple cases of embezzlement, withholding and disappearance of evidence. Perry's either been directly involved or has at least turned a blind eye. There's a rumor that he's going to resign. Which means, your internship is safe."

She delivered the last sentence with a chirp. At the moment, I didn't share her excitement. It meant little in the grand scheme of things. But seeing my friend so exhilarated by the thought of me staying at the precinct had a hint of a smile spread on my lips.

"I'm glad." I meant it.

"Oh, one more thing. Our forensic team's picking Shelby's place apart as we speak. Seems he built his secret room a little too sturdy. Despite the fire and explosion, the room and its contents, are mostly intact. Ira's gonna have a field day or, night, over there."

The smile lingered as I thought of Ira's boyish enthusiasm. No doubt he would.

"Look, you probably don't want to talk about agent Jayden right now but there's something you need to know…" Jane's poise straightened. My smile faded. "It's about those sunglasses. Or, _augmented interface_ as 'sunglasses' sounds so harmless. And they're certainly not... harmless."

I shrugged. "Spill it." I was in no mood for melodrama.

"Its long-term effect on the brain is still not fully understood…" My friend hesitated, weighing her words carefully. "But, as you predicted, there are reasons to believe daily exposure over time is dangerous. Reports from the FBI's R&D describes idiopathic anomalies in the users' EEG scans."

 _So the 'marvelous' ARI does affect the user's brain but they have no idea how or why. Great._

"That drug you found on him, Triptocaine, reduces the symptoms of ARI-induced overstimulation but, as you said yourself before your, you know…"

"Meltdown?"

"I was gonna go with _outburst_ but meltdown works too. That drug is highly addictive."

"I'll talk to him," I said reluctantly, too worn out both physically and mentally, to properly process all this new information.

"This is serious Lisa. I admire your appeal to diplomacy in tense situations. I really do. But Jayden may try to downplay the whole thing and you're not exactly the best at confrontational stuff."

Though I knew she was right, her words stung more than I wanted to admit.

"Stop it, Jane. I'm not that gullible."

"Dude, you think _Netflix'n chill_ literally means watching Netflix and chill."

"It… doesn't?"

My no longer ex-colleague let out a chortle and shook her head. Then she pulled me in for a bear hug. I apologized again, which she cancelled mid-sentence. After sincere, mutual promises to keep in touch - and not secrets, I went to check on Ethan, Shaun and a now sentient Madison. The three of them had bundled up in the rear end of an ambulance. They'd huddled so close, as if one of them moved even the slightest, they'd collapse like a house of cards. A flash of self-consciousness made me halt. It felt like imposing on a very private moment. Madison's warm smile and friendly eyes encouraged me to approach.

"Heya. How are you feeling?"

"Just finished a round of 20 questions," the brunette cheekily replied. "I won first prize. A night at the hospital, joined by these two." She smiled at her companions. "And I'm not allowed to be alone for the next couple of days. But I'll be fine. Maybe I can finally get some much-needed sleep."

"Do you have anyone that can stay with you? I mean, I'd be more than happy to-"

"That's all right," Ethan shot in. "She won't be alone."

He tucked his arm around her waist. Madison's eyes lingered on Shaun face as she fondled the blanket he was tucked in. The boy resting peacefully in his father's arms looked like a mini-Ethan, but with brown eyes instead of blue. Then she leaned in under the exhausted but blissful father's chin.

"None of us will," he whispered, gently hugging her. "Not anymore."

"You did it, Ethan!" I praised. "You saved your son."

"I would've never made it out alive if it hadn't been for you two. Thank you. For everything."

From the corner of my eye, I observed the FBI agent some twenty yards away talking to an officer while resting against a streetlight. Madison gave me a nudge.

"Go to him."

I felt a well-known discomfort settling in my stomach. You know, that feeling when you're trying to force yourself to do something you absolutely dread. I had no idea what to say to him, how to make this right. My first instinct was to run. To avoid an inevitable unpleasant conversation. Making exactly the same mistake all over again. Where I put it off until tomorrow. Always putting it off till tomorrow. Until one day, Norman would leave for D.C. without as much as a goodbye. It was time I learned.

"Okay. Here goes. Wish me luck."

The fatigued journalist flashed me an encouraging smile. "It'll be fine."

Keeping eye-contact with Madison, I headed in the general direction of my objective. My back still facing Norman, I did the talk-on-the-phone gesture by pointing my thumb upward and little finger downward, followed up by a flexed index alternating between the reporter and myself.

"Call me when you feel better, m'kay? Gotta keep in touch. You're the Cagney to my Lacey."

The Cagney visibly cringed and shot me the _you-did-not_ look in response.

"Sorry, couldn't help myself," I grinned. Lame attempts at wittiness in awkward situations was my hallmark, after all. I tucked my hands in the jacket's pockets and over-nonchalantly strolled up to the FBI agent. He quickly rounded up the conversation and the officer left to give us some privacy.

"Hey, you."

He straightened, and returned my greeting with a gentle nod, still clinging to his abdomen.

"How are you feeling?"

"Beaten," he gritted. "But I'll live. And you? What happened to your arm?"

"Same. Beaten. It got toasted. Long story."

We sought shelter under a nearby small shed packed with random junk. I wiggled nervously back and forth. My numb fingers started to tingle. My companion rested against the wall, his eyes fixated at a puddle on the ground.

"The killer wouldn't have been so hard to find if Blake's team hadn't been so, well to put it bluntly, incompetent," I began, hoping to forge a bond via common ground. "All it took was Madison tracking down the owner of the apartment where Ethan cut off his finger, which led us to Paco, which again led us to Shelby's twin brother and eventually Shelby himself. And all in less than a day's work."

I failed to hide the pride in my voice. Well aware he didn't approve of our meddling, I was low-key hoping the FBI agent would at least be a little bit impressed by our deduction skills. His expression was impossible to decipher as per usual and he merely nodded. No sign of enthrallment. But at least he was here. Next to me. Listening to my blabbering.

"If only Blake would've had more focus on the parents," I continued, shaking my head in disbelief. "He should've noticed the fathers going missing."

"Internal affairs are looking into it as we speak," the FBI agent informed. "But I can assure you there's going to be serious consequences for Blake."

"Yeah, Jane told me."

Silence. I resumed wiggling. Norman's attention lingered at the pond. The surface was continuously broken by never-ending rain. I recalled our first proper conversation, after the disastrous morning brief. He'd done his best to comfort me after Blake's mockery. Had it really been just nine-and-a-half day? It felt so much longer.

Damn, that water puddle sure must be fascinating.

"What a fucked-up day, eh?"

"You wanted to be part of the investigation." the agent reminded me. I'd gotten way more than I'd bargained for. I guess it qualified as one of them _careful what you wish for_ moments.

"Yeah, about that… I think I've had enough of that for, um, like, the rest of my life."

There was a faint hint of a smile. I think? It faded away so quickly. The throbbing under the bandage resumed. Or, had it been there this whole time but I hadn't noticed? Seriously, what was it about that puddle?

Straightening, the FBI agent broke the silence this time. "So, vandalism and resisting arrest, huh?"

I'd been waiting for this to come up. "It was a long time ago…" I took a deep breath. "I'd just turned 20 and I joined this animal activist group. One day, or night, we impulsively decided to break into a cosmetics R&D division where they performed tests on animals. I was already on edge and the sight that met me there didn't exactly help. I couldn't think straight."

I paused, looking up at my companion. He silently held my gaze, waiting for me to continue.

"The others started to trash the place and spraying graffiti all over, and I… I joined them. Of course the police arrived and we were all arrested. I was charged with… what you just said."

I paused again to scan his face for a reaction. There was none. But at least he was looking at me and not an assembly of water on the ground.

"I'm not proud of it," I said defensively. "I nearly got kicked out of Stanford but 'got away' with a one semester suspension. I had to pay a huge fine and do 200 hours of community service. Plenty of time to reflect. So, did you like my mugshot?"

I immediately regretted the question. _Timing, Lisa._

To my relief, the agent cooked a smile. My heart started hammering real fast. Definitely a smile this time. The incident had taken place during my pierced eyebrow and multi-colored dreadlock phase.

"Norman, how did you know to come to the Blue Lagoon?" I queried, changing the subject.

"I found a lead on one of the surveillance videos. A car fitting the description of the killer's passing through the area at the time of the abduction had a stolen license plate. The license plate led me to a possible suspect supplying the killer with a car, Mad Jack. After some _persuasion_ , he informed me about the Blue Lagoon, and Paco."

"Is that where you got the black eye?"

The FBI agent touched his temple, trailing the wound. "Yeah… I had another, um, incident."

"And no backup?"

"No."

"Well, that was pretty fucking stupid, eh?" I cheekily retorted, cooking a smile. The agent looked away, but not without letting out a soft chuckle. Yet again, we stood in silence, but this time, it was different. Some of the tension between us had finally been lifted.

"Listen, I…"

"It can wait," Norman interrupted. "Tomorrow I'll file a report, and you have to give a statement. Whatever it is, it can wait until then."

"I'm trying to ap-"

He broke me off. His eyes locked on mine. "I know I was hard on you today. More than once. I-I was concerned for your safety."

We were finally getting somewhere. Moreover, he was right. The Kramers and Dr. Baker could both wait till tomorrow. With his influential father no longer around, it shouldn't be a problem getting Kramer Jr. prosecuted.

"And you had every right to be," I admitted. "I've been irresponsible and reckless. I broke my promise to you. And I totally crossed the line with the whole drug-thing. I was-"

"You were worried about me."

I nodded, twiddling my fingers.

"I'm just glad you're okay," the FBI agent acknowledged, taking a step in my direction. I had to put all my effort into not burst out crying. He was no longer angry at me.

"Yeah, me too," I responded with a series of nods and irregular breaths. "And you, likewise. See you around, I guess."

Hands back in my pockets, I started to walk away while I could still hold back the bittersweet tears when Norman spoke.

"Wait."

I spun around, trying to tell the butterflies in my tummy to not get their hopes up.

"I-I know I can be, um…"

"Bad at socializing? Lousy at small-talk? Near impossible to read?"

Had I really said that out loud? Norman was lost for a response.

"All of the above?" I raised a brow. Had I been too direct? Had I blown it? Was there an _it_?

"Sorry, I didn't meant to…"

"No, you're right. I know, believe me. And I'm working on it. I-I keep thinking about-"

My brows shot up and my mouth parted. _Be still, my beating heart._

"About…" I coaxed.

"About yesterday… when we..."

My eyes lingered at the FBI agent awkwardly fumbling with his hands and words, biting my lip. I knew damn well what he meant but man, if he wasn't gonna say this one out loud.

"Did you really mean what you said earlier? Up in that crane?"

"You know damn well I did!" My voice was trembling. "You were saying?"

"I keep thinking about… when you kissed me," he finally admitted, diverting his gaze. "I can't stop thinking about you."

"Oh. Like, in... eh, a not-bad way, or…?"

"No. I mean, yes. In a good way. Definitely in a good way."

Awkward, but oddly romantic. And totally encouraging. "That's… really great news," I blurted. "For me, obvs. And same, by the way."

There was a shadow of a smile, then somber seriousness washed over his gorgeous face. "We have a lot to talk about. To work through."

Despite the tension and the messy road ahead, I was so relived I wanted to cry but this time out of sheer joy. There was hope for us. "For one, you have to quit your drug habit," I insisted, struggling to keep my cool. Norman sat down on a stack of old tires.

"My real addiction isn't Triptocaine. It's ARI. I use Tripto to reduce the symptoms caused by spending too much time in ARI's virtual environment, although the drug is addictive on its own."

He paused, his expression glossy and distant. "I have to learn how to let go… of ARI. And to start living in the real world again. But I still have a long way to go."

I had a strong feeling it was the first time he'd said that out loud.

"I want to help you," I affirmed as I sat down next to him and placed my frozen fingers over his. My thumb gently stroked the back of his hand. His skin was warmer than mine. Or eyes met.

"Let's take it one day at a time, eh?" I encouraged. "I'll be there with you every step of the way."

"I think it's time I learn to accept help when it's offered," he conceded in a brittle tone.

After what had felt like an eternity aching to have him in my arms, I could wait no longer. I grabbed his jacket and pulled him close. We embraced, and this time, we did not let go. Not until the next morning.

* * *

 **I apologize for the long wait. I had to work through a writer's block. Thanks for your patience. Read the epilogue to see how the characters are doing after some time has passed and for a final A/N.**

 **Thank you for taking the time to read my full-lenght version of Heavy Rain, and thank you for the reviews and kudos. A special thanks goes to my best friend Distant-Rain. Without your continuous support and encouragement this story would not exist and I therefore dedicate The Forensics of the Origami Murders to you. Thank you so much for all your kind words and feedback.  
**


	23. Epilogue and author's notes

The burn wound healed, but on my left arm there is a scar to forever remind me of the time I hunted the Origami Killer. I would often find myself trailing the intricate pattern of the scarred tissue, reliving those eventful days. One-and-a-half year later, on a lovely summer's day, I greeted my guests outside my parents' home in D.C. The bridesmaids, maid of honor and best man, to be precise. By this time tomorrow I'd be Mrs. Lisa Jayden. We'd seen our share of rough patches… but we'd pulled through. Just as we'd pull through the next rough patch. And the next. In good times and in bad… for the first time in my life I fully understood the powerful meaning behind this commonly used wedding vow.

I waved at my friends with one hand and pulled at my grey lace top with the other. The same one I'd been wearing when kissing Norman for the first time, in a dusty hallway outside a tiny student apartment in Philadelphia. It'd gotten a bit tight but was still a good fit. The maid-of-honor let go of her husband's hand and returned my greeting with an enthusiastic wave. Ethan and Madison had married last year and were proud parents of one-year-old Jessica. Shaun had gotten so tall! The soon-to-be teenager couldn't get enough of his baby sister and gladly took her in his arms so Madison could dive into mine.

"Ahh, it's so good to see you again, Mad. It's been too long. Aw, Jessica. You've grown so much."

"Great seeing you too. I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too." I didn't realize how much until now. She'd grown out her hair and now had a chic bob very similar to Jane. When she moved her head, a pleasant smell of lilacs filled the air.

"Sooo, excited for tomorrow!"

"Sure am!" I beamed. There was so much I wanted to tell her but at the moment I was too stumped with joy to elaborate.

"You're ready for parenthood?"

"Is anyone ever?" I asked rhetorically, my hand gliding over the tiny bulb on my abdomen.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Here's your copy." Radiating pride, the reporter and now first-time author handed over a thick book with a glossy cover of an origami folded to look like a dog. The title read HEAVY RAIN in thick, red letters. Authors: Madison P. Mars and Ethan Mars. It was THE BOOK that 'everyone' had been buzzing about for weeks. And here I was, holding my very own, personally signed copy, one week before the official release.

"It's signed, of course. And with a personal message."

"I can't wait to read," I squeaked. "Thank you. Both of you."

Ethan, who was holding onto Madison's hand like a lifeline, had been charged with putting others in danger because of his stunt on the highway 95, and for the assault of Brad Silver. Extenuating circumstances had reduced his sentence to three months jailtime and 200 hours community service. I gave him a hug and Madison brought Jessica and Shaun to greet another little girl. He was still skinny but he'd gained substantial weight since that gloomy day in the run-down motel.

"And you? How are you feeling?"

"It's tough…" he confided, touching the amputated stump with a somber, but determined look in his sky-blue eyes. He looked over at Madison spinning around with Jessica held high as Shaun was busy snapping pictures with his brand-new phone. His features softened and a smile emerged.

"But I have so much to live for."

A small circle assembled around Madison and her daughter. Jane put her arm around my shoulder and I hugged her, grateful she'd arrived a couple of days earlier than the others to help out with pre-wedding preparations. A two-year old girl sitting comfortably in her mother's arms was clapping her hands with an enthusiasm only toddlers know how to do. Little Emily. _They grow up so fast_ , I thought to myself, my hand lingering on my tummy.

"Lauren. Susan. Thank you so much for coming. It really means a lot. I know you've been super busy."

"This is just what we needed," Lauren assured, her eyes filled with joy. "Moving in together helps us save money but we still can't afford much. It was very kind of Mr. and Mrs. Mars to offer us a lift."

Lauren and Susan had recently decided to share an apartment so they could move to a better neighborhood. Away from bad memories and to a brighter future for Emily, whom Lauren now was like a second mother to. The former prostitute had completely left her old life behind and was now working as a hotel maid. In fact, she was practically glowing.

"You sure this is just about raising the girl?" Jane gave me a nudge and glanced at Lauren and Susan. The two women huddled together with Emily as Shaun was lining them up for a picture. Susan put her arm around the woman with ebony hair. Her fingers brushed Lauren's elbow ever so softly as she tucked her arm around her friend's waist. Lauren moved closer to Susan and a coy smile spread on her lips. A warm sensation spread through me. It felt good seeing them so happy together.

"Maybe not," I pondered, tilting my head. "Either way, it's none of our business."

I excused myself and dashed inside to get more snacks and to fill up on drinks when my future husband surprise embraced me. "Hey gorgeous," I greeted as I inhaled the familiar scent of wood and musk with a hint of citrus and cinnamon. "You're home early."

Norman snuggled his chin in my hair, inhaling my scents as well. "Are you feeling better, darling?"

"Sweetie, it was just morning sickness. Totally common. Don't you know it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?" I joked.

"You don't believe in that sort of thing any more than me," he countered with a grin.

"True. But we gotta save some for the honeymoon," I retorted, cheekily raising a brow.

"No need. I have plenty to give. For the honeymoon and another forty years to come."

Ok, couldn't argue with that. He pulled me close and kissed me behind my ear. As his lips trailed my neck I started giggling like a schoolgirl. When he retracted, a blend of lust and longing rushed through me and I found myself aching for more. _Guests out on the lawn, remember._

"Are you sure everything is all right?" my love asked with concern, stroking an escaped lock behind my ear whilst placing his other hand on my belly.

"I couldn't be happier. And I can't wait to spend the rest of my life bickering over who's turn it is to empty the dishwasher," I chortled.

My future partner-for-life pulled me in for a hot kiss. His hands moved from my belly to my bottom and his hips started wagging against mine. Before I knew it, my hands had found their way inside his half-unbuttoned shirt. How did this happen?

"Stop it," I giggled. "We've got guests!"

"They can wait," he mumbled into my hair as he removed my scarf. Slowly.

 _Oh, God._

I pushed him an armlengths away. "So, um I've been thinking about the whole moving situation…" A change of subject was what we needed right now. Norman had wanted to quit the FBI for a while. With Perry's forced resign and my contribution to the Origami Killer case, Gabs hadn't hesitated to approve my internship with flying colors. And my dissertation scored an A. Now that I had my PhD we'd been talking about a fresh start, somewhere sunny and warm. But there was one problem. My dream job at the Smithsonian. However, I might've found a solution.

"Sooo. As it turns," I started, holding up a pamphlet. "The Smithsonian has a division in Panama. The Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute, or, STRI for short, one of the world's leading tropical research organizations." Norman grabbed the colorful brochure. "I wouldn't be able to work on epigenetics and evolution but marine scientists are currently conducting a global survey of coral reef organisms and genetics, which honestly sounds just as awesome."

"Is this why you insisted on going to Panama for our honeymoon?" he queried with a half-cooked grin. I tilted my head and cooked a smile. I apparently had a habit of doing that. Or so I'd been told.

"So, what do you think? I could try for a one-year internship so it wouldn't be a permanent thing. Then next year we could talk about whether we want to stay or not."

"It doesn't hurt to check it out, I guess. And I'm sure I could find something to do in Panama as well."

He remained chill but I saw a glimmer of excitement in his beautiful, green eyes. I started blabbering about all the practical stuff that'd have to be taken care of but stopped mid-sentence when Norman wrapped his arms around me again, slipped his hand under my top and closed his lips on mine. Using his thumb, he coaxed me to open my mouth by softly pushing at my chin. Hell, _yeah_. I'd definitely taught him a thing or two.

"I love you, Norman Jayden," I breathed between gasps.

"Love you back."

* * *

Excerpt from The American Tribune, November 6, 2013:

 **Ex-police officer arrested for armed robbery**

 _By Madison P. Mars, photojournalist._

 **Yesterday evening, the police force of Philadelphia Police 6th district was forced to arrest one of their own. Carter Blake, an ex-lieutenant who lost his job in the aftermath of the Origami Killer incident two years ago, was apprehended for attempted armed robbery at a liquor store. The ex-lieutenant lost his badge due to numerous violations of police protocol and ethical guidelines, among those police brutality and mishandling of evidence. By the time the police arrived, he'd emptied the cash register and made numerous threats at the officers as he held the cashier at gun point, leaving the police no choice but to use non-lethal force. If he's found guilty, he's could be looking at some serious time in a state penitentiary.**

 **~ The End ~**

* * *

 **Motivation for writing this fan fiction:**

First and foremost, to give Norman Jayden a partner, ally and friend (and more) as well as the happy ending that he was depraved of in the canon, much to his many fans dismay, including yours truly. I also wanted to give him a more prominent role in the investigation. Norman is a capable investigator and an intelligent and skilled profiler but at some point, the canon pretty much tosses that aside and almost exclusively focuses on his addiction, where the next clue seem to pretty much just fall into his lap and the player is left watching him haphazardly stumble his way through the investigation until he eventually, given that he is still alive, ends up at the right location. Norman should've picked up the fathers going missing, he should've realized something was 'off' with one of the victims (Joseph Brown), he should've been talking to the victims' parents etc. I wanted to give him that.

I also wanted to add my own theories, explanations or twists to plot points and other elements that didn't make sense to me or were left unexplained in the canon, such as determining the killer's car down to the exact model from tire tracks alone – after several hours of intense rainfall nonetheless, or the parents not reporting obvious clues to the police, lack of support groups, etc.

I toned down the ARI as some of its features, like a full-blown blood analysis from traces of blood washed out by hours of rain, was utterly unrealistic and no replacement of forensics, autopsy and human interpretation of the results from these by trained professionals. Analytical work is performed and interpreted by actual people, experts in the field. Technology is merely a tool, not a replacement. ARI can still do much of the same stuff, but it's mostly an evidence detecting and data storage system. It can detect traces of body fluids, but it can't do a blood count, determine blood type etc. It can scan prints, tracks etc. but won't always be able to determine the type and model. And by making my character part of a forensic team I could also use my degree in bioscience.

That's it for me. Thanks for reading The Forensics of the Origami Murders. Take care y'all.


End file.
